


Yellow Submarines

by jerseydevious



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: F/F, Gen, M/M, i don't proofread prompt fills so tonight i die like the waynes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-20
Updated: 2018-11-06
Packaged: 2018-11-16 17:04:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 50
Words: 45,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11257158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jerseydevious/pseuds/jerseydevious
Summary: Writing prompt fills cross-posted from my tumblr.





	1. dick & tim

**Author's Note:**

> The reason I'm putting this up is a) I always love an excuse to garner attention and b) my writing tag is cluttered, and I wanted an easy way to refer back to my DC fills, because I've done a lot of them recently. AO3 is way easier to navigate than my blog, so this seemed like a good choice.

“Hnnh - wha… is - is that my shirt?”

 

Dick snapped the corners of the polo together, folding it neatly on a towering stack of other clothes. “Good morning. When was the last time you organized your drawers?”

 

Tim hauled himself up, feeling his head spin. “What are… you’re dressed for work.”

 

The sharp, bright lines of blue seemed to flash in the dark of Tim’s apartment, and the flurry of blue fingers as they buttoned an old plaid shirt was nauseating. He’d missed something, something big enough for Nightwing to swing into his apartment -

 

“Stay down. You’re sick as a dog, you’re lucky I’m letting you stay here,” Dick said, tucking his chin over the stack of clothes and setting them on top of the dresser.

 

Tim, despite himself, relaxed back into the pillows. Every inch of his skin seemed to feel like it’d been rubbed with sandpaper, and all he wanted was the beautiful, golden warmth of his blankets.

 

Dick peeled his mask off and tossed it on the dresser. “I’ll be here for a bit, if you don’t mind. Drink that water.”

 

Tim’s eyes - they felt too large for their sockets, like they were swollen and infected, like they’d fall out - found the glass, but he didn’t move. Not yet. He was working up the nerve. His bones felt like stone.

 

“What about… samples. Samples. What about the…”

 

“Which ones, dirt from McVey or - “

 

“Theater. The… that one. There was something - “

 

A pad and pen landed against his stomach. “You sound like hell. Write it down if you think it’s important, squirt, I’ll pass it along.”

 

Tim scribbled quickly, afraid the sentence would slip away in the fog of his mind. Dick plucked the pen out of his hand the second he stopped, and then replaced it with a glass of water.

 

After a few grateful gulps, Tim said, “You’re… organizing my clothes.”

 

Dick chuckled, low and soft. Maybe it was the darkness, maybe it was the lateness of the hour, but everything seemed quiet and kind, like all harsh edges had been drained away. “It’s because you’re a disaster, Tim. You’re putting your socks in with your sweaters.”

 

Something drew taught in his chest. Bruce used to do that, when Tim left his room unoccupied and unguarded, because Alfred had _strong_ opinions about how fine young men, such as themselves, should at least be able to keep their own space in some semblance of order. Bruce, evidently, didn’t share the same ideas, because Tim would periodically come back to hospital corners sharp enough to slip throats and finely cleaned windows. He must have done that for Dick, too. Maybe he did it for all of them.

 

A cool rag was pressed over his forehead. “What’re you smiling about?”

 

“Nothing,” Tim said. “And don’t touch my underwear. There’s a system.”

 

“What, is your clean underwear going to give me cooties?” Dick stopped, hand hovering over him. “Your - your underwear is clean, right?”

 

“My rule: don’t touch what’s on the floor.”

 

“This is where Alfred would call you a ninny. I’m gonna do it for him.” Dick flicked his ear. “You _ninny_.”

 

“It’s so funny, when - when he does that,” Tim said, batting at Dick’s hand. “He’s so _serious_.”

 

“Master _Richard_ , you will _put_ that _pop_ beneath a _coaster_ , you _ninny,_ ” Dick said, miming a British accent. It was ridiculous enough that Tim giggled, and Dick flashed him a kind smile.

 

“Rest up.” Dick tucked away a stack of clothes. “I might need to pick your brain on something in Bludhaven. It’s a missing persons case. I’m anticipating witches.”

 

“Mmm… fun,” Tim mumbled, turning over to press his face into the pillow. If he felt a warm, rough hand rub at his hair, he must have been imagining it.


	2. bruce & dick

Dick dropped to the ground, letting his kneepads take the impact, and slid beneath a shuddering beam - it collapsed seconds after he shot under it, flinging up a plume of gray dust.

 

“Batman!” Dick jumped over a clump of rubble - he felt his ankle turn and wrench, but he ignored it.

 

 _Over there_ , he thought, giddily - he could see Bruce, a solid wall of black beneath washed-out shades of gray.

 

He hit the ground beside Bruce hard. The shaft of an arrow stuck out of his side, and Bruce’s hands were wrapped around it, pressing against the wound, but his grip was weak. 

 

“I leave for an hour and you take all the action, eh?”

 

“Poisoned,” Bruce choked. “Poisoned - poisoned dart - “

 

“Shit,” Dick hissed. That explained why Bruce hadn’t already pulled it out. It didn’t give when he tugged on it - barbed, then. “I’m gonna have to cut it out, can you hold it?”

 

He didn’t wait for Bruce’s reply - he skipped to the third pouch on the left of Bruce’s utility belt, hit the button twice to deactivate the security, and pulled out the gleaming tactical knife. He snapped the arrow in half to get it out of the way. “You ready?”

 

“Just _do_ it,” Bruce snapped.

 

“Don’t bite my head off when I’ve got a knife over your gut,” Dick said, pushing the tip of the knife in - it was deeper than he’d thought. He made as short work of it as he could.

 

“Hands,” Dick barked, and Bruce’s gauntlets covered the wound. Dick dropped the arrow head - four barbed points, almost like a grapple - into an evidence bag. Custom arrowhead, they could trace the make: it was something.

 

He tapped his comm. “This is Nightwing, I’m gonna need emergency assistance. There’s poison involved, we need to book it - you have my location?”

 

Barbara’s voice cut into the static.  _“I’ve got it, don’t worry. ETA ten minutes.”_

 

“That’s pushing it,” Dick ground out. “Make someone kick up their heels.”

 

“Don’t be - ridiculous,” Bruce wheezed. “I’m fine.”

 

“You always say that, and I have never once believed it in my life. Oracle. I’m keeping you on the line to stay, uh - “

 

“Ah - apprised.”

 

“I just cut an arrowhead out of you, you’re seriously gonna make points about my vocabulary now?”

 

_“Got it, Nightwing. I can cross reference symptoms from here so we can do this as fast as possible.”_

 

Dick leaned over Bruce. “Hey, hey, hey - eyes on me, capiche? Take the lenses down. I need to see.”

 

Wordlessly, Bruce tugged the catch, and the milky lenses slid away. “Dilated pupils,” Dick said. “He’s breathing too fast. Can you take off a glove so I can check your pulse?”

 

Bruce’s eyes were closing - a thrill of fear curled up his spine. Dick slapped the ground by Bruce’s ear. “Wake up! Just _stay with me_ \- don’t you dare close your eyes, understand? A poison arrow is not gonna kill the Batman, you hear?”

 

_“Dick…”_

 

Bruce’s eyes were still closed, but he murmured: “S’not a… not a bullet.”

 

“A bullet won’t get the chance, either, because I’m here. Stay with me. Talk to me, I’ll take a story - any story, anything at all.”

 

“Jason,” Bruce gasped. Dick’s heart pounded against his sternum. “When I had - when I had Jason, I… took him to a baseball game.”

 

“You did? Who won? Tell me, Bruce, who won the game?” Dick furiously packed a crude field bandage over the wound, held it there.

 

“… Knights, it was - the Knights.”

 

Dick forced a grin. Bruce’s eyes - gray, in the darkness - tried and failed to focus on him. “That’s our team, old man, remember? Gotham pride, all day, every day.”

 

“We used to…”

 

“Yeah,” Dick said. “We used to watch the baseball games together, remember? Just stay with me, and I’ll take you to one, it’ll be my treat. You might not know this, but I’m a trust fund baby.”

 

Bruce’s eyes were watching him, now, unnaturally bright, but still duller than they usually were. “P-promise?”

 

“Promise, big guy. Cross my heart and hope to die.”

 

“That’s - not funny. Don’t… don’t say that.”

 

 _Don’t say that._ They’d been talking about Jason, even. 

 

Dick leaned his forehead against Bruce’s chest, letting the rough kevlar ground him. It was hard to be someone else’s anchor, when he’d been born to fly. “I won’t. That’s another promise. Oracle. How much longer?”

 

“ _The fastest the auto can get there is four minutes, not unless I -_ ”

“Whatever it is, do it.” Dick blew out a breath. “Okay, okay. B. What did you guys do, at the baseball game?”

 

“Jay… ate five chili dogs. And. Shouted - everything that - that - “

 

The words didn’t come. Dick felt Bruce shudder beneath him, and for a second fear was in his throat, fear had become his blood, but Bruce spoke again, this time in a whisper: “I miss him.”

 

“I know you do, I know. He was…”

 

“My - my _world_. So… so are you…”

 

Bruce would only tell him him that if - 

 

“Don’t you fucking _dare_ ,” Dick snarled. “Don’t you dare, don’t you - just stay with me, right? Eyes on me. Please.”

 

 _“There! It’s there, it’s there,”_ Barbara shouted.  _“I can’t drive it through the warehouse without structural damage, you’ll have to carry him.”_

 

“How on Earth did you - “

 

_“Drone controls, ran it through a few parking garages. Figured your trust fund could cover construction. You’re not far from the Manor if I run behind the Adkins building.”_

 

“You’re fucking incredible,” Dick said. He slung Bruce’s arm over his shoulder, and pulled him up - Bruce seemed to gain about twenty pounds of deadweight when he was poisoned. Dick folded him into the passenger seat, and slid over the hood.

 

“Babs, I’m gonna ask you to work your drone control magic,” Dick said, leaning over Bruce. He tugged the cowl off - in the scarlet light of the Batmobile’s dashboard, he looked like a corpse already. Dick elbowed his shoulder. “Sleep is for the weak, remember?”

 

“Sleep…  _for_  - week,” Bruce grunted. The Batmobile shot forward with a jerk, and Bruce listed to the side. Dick reached over and pulled the lever beneath the seat, letting it flatten. 

 

“That’s the spirit,” Dick said. He lifted Bruce’s legs up and laid them on the dashboard. “Babs - “

 

_“The best I can do is five, I can’t push it harder.”_

 

“Five minutes,” Dick said, covering Bruce’s hands - where they pressed against the bandages - with his own. “You always make it, Bruce, you always do.”

 

“‘Cause… you’re there.”


	3. bruce & jason

“Don’t be an ass.”

 

The white lenses of the cowl reflected the red lights of the Batmobile’s dashboard, casting Bruce in eerie black shadows and cruel crimson edges. Beneath the cowl, his mouth was flat and thin.

 

“Don’t look at me like that. That counts as assery.”

 

“That’s not a word.”

 

“Fuck the dictionary,” Jason said, inspecting his pistol. He turned it just so it’d catch the light, so Bruce would have to see it. “They popped a tracker on me, by the way. It’s on my shoelaces. I think they’re trying to be clever.”

 

The Batmobile shot like a bullet out of the alleyway. Jason had always loved the deep _roar_ of the engine, the leashed power he felt beneath the black leather and steel, like riding thunder, taming the darkest thunderstorm the night could bring. 

 

The first time he’d ridden in the Batmobile, it’d been so unearthly fast he’d nearly gotten sick - Bruce had noticed, of course, because Bruce made it his lot in life to notice things, and had taken the Batmobile as easy as possible. Jason had wanted to tell him faster, faster, I want to see this baby move, but he’d been scared that he’d vomit everywhere if he opened his mouth.

 

“What’s the plan?” Jason asked, tapping the gun against his thigh. He caught the creak of leather as Bruce’s fists wrapped tighter around the wheel.

 

“Road trip,” Bruce said, voice flat, nearly lost in the rumble of the engine. “Nightwing’s waiting in upstate New York.”

 

“ _All the way to_ \- why the fuck are we going all the way to New York?” Jason snapped. “You could’ve said something, I could’ve gone to piss before I got in this thing.”

 

“I have a meeting tomorrow, and it was efficient. That wasn’t important.”

 

“Yes, the fuck it was, you ass. I told you not to be an ass, you fucking ass.” Jason pressed the release on his helmet, and tossed it in the scrunched space that counted as the Batmobile’s back seat. “I guess this is why you were all in my business on Monday?”

 

“I wanted to know if you would have any plans, and you didn’t.”

 

Jason stopped. “You can’t drive the Batmobile to your rich bitch soiree. You don’t have a safehouse up this way.”

 

“I do, actually.”

 

“Oh, no you do not,” Jason said, crossing his arms. He jiggled his leg, letting the gun bounce.

 

“I wouldn’t check 53 Woodbury Court, if I were you. Stop that.”

 

“We’re revisiting the earlier rule, remember? You don’t have a safehouse up here, I know you don’t, because I know where your safehouses are.”

 

“You might want to update your knowledge. But you are right, in so far as I can’t drive the Batmobile through a normal neighborhood and leave it there without drawing attention, which is why I was going to let you drive it back.”

 

“What the - no way.”

 

“Yes, way. I understand that we usually have a philosophical pissing contest, and we haven’t done that this month, but can you at least put it somewhere I can’t see it.”

 

Jason turned in his seat. “You’re doing the bitchy thing you do with your mouth when you tell the truth, too. Are you serious?”

 

“I don’t do a bitchy thing with my mouth.”

 

It was always a tad absurd when Bruce cursed - it was all clean, perfect pronunciation, like the feedback from a text-to-speech program. It was the way he talked in general, actually, that didn’t lend itself to slang very well. It was comforting, in a way, simply because it’d been the music of his childhood: the growl of the Batmobile, the tap of Alfred’s shoes down the hall, Bruce’s inflectionless voice. Some things never change, and as sure as the sun would rise and set, Bruce Wayne would never sound like he was asking a goddamn question in his life.

 

“I might do a donut or two, just warning you,” Jason said, running his hand along the side. Power skirted beneath his fingers - it was not, exactly, unlike holding a gun. There was strength just barely contained beneath the steel; it was his right, almost his duty, to set it free.

 

“Don’t push it,” Bruce growled.


	4. bruce & dick

“Did you _see_ that? Did ya see that - _Batman!_ I was like _pow_ , and he was like _bang_ , and then I kicked the crowbar right out of his - you’re not even paying attention to me.”

 

Bruce lowered his binoculars. The wind rushed through his cape, sending it twirling over edge of the building. It had been a slow night - he’d expected it would be. No surprises. It was a good night, to take Dick with him. It was enough.

 

But he kept thinking he was hearing the echo of screams, around the edges of the peaceful dark. Nothing could ever be quiet, it seemed - there was only ever the horrified silence of staring down a new hell. 

 

Dick tugged on his cape. “Batman. Batman. Bat - “

 

“What,” Bruce growled, “do you think. You are doing.”

 

“I’m gettin’ your attention, boss,” Dick said, ducking under the cape, and popping up at his side. “You weren’t payin’ attention.”

 

“Because I am _watching_ \- ”

 

“Something that isn’t me, now pay attention. When I dropped into the handstand, d’you think - “

 

“It was flashy. Against a more aptly trained opponent, it wouldn’t have worked, and you would’ve expended energy uselessly. It would be life-endangering, if the man had had a gun.”

 

Dick nodded thoughtfully. “Got it. So, maybe I should’ve dropped and rolled, and bursted on him when he swung the crowbar.”

 

Bruce allowed himself the ghost of a smile. Dick was a bright boy, quick to learn and faster to correct himself - he had a keen eye, and a need to be nothing short of the best. “You’re good.”

 

Dick grinned up at him. Something in Bruce’s chest tightened, condensed, like the hot core of a star. “You’ll be better than me someday.”

 

Dick beamed, and hit him in the thigh with an elbow. “You’ll always be number one in my book, grumps.”

 

Bruce grunted, but the warm thing in his chest threatened to burst. Dick took it as a cue to continue chattering. “You know, it’s kind of hot under the cape. How do you stand it? I’m sweatin’ my butt off. Plus, you’re wearing like, fifteen layers of armor. Are you even alive right now?”

 

“It’s debatable.”

 

Dick snickered. “Can’t wait for a shower, huh? I’ll race you to Dairy Queen.”

 

Dick didn’t wait for Bruce’s response - he took off, swinging into the air, a bright flash of day in the bleak, starless sky. He was full of light and grace.

 

Bruce allowed himself a real, live smile, and followed him.


	5. bruce & clark

“If you could move just a little bit to the left, that’d be amazing.”

 

Bruce huffed, and then tapped a few keys. The brightness of the Batcomputer dimmed, and Clark tossed his book down with a sigh. “Super, you’re five.”

 

“You have x-ray vision. You don’t need the light.”

 

“It’s the principle of the thing,” Clark said, crossing his arms. “What’s got your kevlar in a twist tonight? Did someone drop an Oxford comma in a League memo?”

 

“Very funny.”

 

Clark stood up and wandered over - even with the brightness down as far as it would go, the Batcomputer still bathed them in light. Clark leaned against the console. “That’s not the McFarlane case from two weeks ago, is it?”

 

“You weren’t there.”

 

“And I make it a habit to keep up with what you’re doing,” Clark said. 

 

“Since when.”

 

Clark drummed his hand against the cool metal. “Since you had your spine snapped in half, and the only reason I knew about it was because I needed to be your liaison to the League.”

 

Bruce must have been more tired than he’d thought, because he didn’t rise to the bait - he only made a sort of grunting noise, and steepled his hands over his mouth.

 

“So. If I were you - “

 

“Stop embarrassing yourself,” Bruce growled. “I haven’t had a mother for decades, what makes you think I need one now.”

 

Clark leaned his head back, letting the cool air caress his cheekbones. “It’s called friendship.”

 

“It’s disgusting.”

 

Clark laughed hard enough for his shoulders to shake with it. “Alright, alright. We’ll go back to lingering in absolute silence, doing nothing.”

 

“That sounds wonderful, thank you.” Bruce turned to him, expression open and pleasant. “Would you like me to turn the brightness up.”

 

“Oh, ah, no, that’s fine.”

 

“No, you were very intent about it earlier, it would be no trouble.”

 

“No, it’s - um, Kara recommended me that book. It’s…”

 

Bruce actually gave a laugh at that - the tiny little huff that passed for his laugh, anyway. 

 

Clark swallowed. “But, in all seriousness - “

 

“I thought I made my feelings on this subject known.”

 

“You did, but I only listen to you about half the time,” Clark said. “I just wanted to say that you can’t be everywhere.”

 

“Spare me the useless platitudes,” Bruce spat. His brows drew tight together. “Next you’re going to talk about how I can’t save everyone. That’s an excuse, Clark. My job - my life - is saving people, and this is a failure of everything I stand for.”

 

Clark rubbed a hand over his face. “Okay. Thought exercise: if it were me, or - hell - if it were Dick in this situation, would you still be saying that?”

 

“Dick doesn’t have the experience I have. That’s a false equivalence.”

 

“No, you’re just living in a false reality where you’re determined to make every event in the cosmos your fault.”

 

Bruce turned in his chair, eyebrow raised. “Pity is a bad look on you. What am I, emotional issues poured into the mold of a person? Christ, Clark, I can handle myself.”

 

“And I’m not saying that, I’m offering moral support. You watched a girl die. It’s okay - “

 

Bruce flung his chair backwards, jabbing his finger at Clark’s chest. “What part of watching a five year old die is okay? She was only five. She was _only five_ , she died holding - she died holding her favorite Transformers toy.”

 

Bruce’s voice had trailed off to scarcely a whisper. He jerked his gaze away - for a moment, he seemed to struggled to keep his rage under control, a muscle in his jaw throbbing, and then he kicked his chair with a roar.

 

 _Got you_ , Clark thought. “It wasn’t your fault, whether you believe me or not.”

 

Bruce frowned grimly at his chair, and then righted it. He stalked away, stripping off his armor. “I choose not to believe you, because you are full of shit.”

 

“You can’t be everything,” Clark said, floating beside him.

 

“That’s easy for you to say.” Bruce sighed, closed his eyes. “You know what, just - just get out, Clark. I don’t have time for this. Go finish your terrible teenage dystopian novel somewhere else.”

 

Clark gritted his teeth - _easy for you to say._ It rankled, how cruel Bruce could be by turns. “Actually, I came here to say something, and I think I’ll say it before I leave, if you’d like to listen.”

 

“I only listen to you about half the time.”

 

“Oh, you’re a real comedian. Anyway - I just wanted to say, so what? The world is complex, and overwhelming, and you can’t do everything.” Clark bent over to pick up his book. “You should learn to forgive yourself for that. Don’t overthink it.”

 

“You could work for Hallmark, with wordsmith’s skills like that,” Bruce grumbled, hanging up the thick plates of armor. 

 

“You’re welcome.”

 

“Enjoy the book.”

 

“I’m sure the SparkNotes page is absolutely riveting.”

 

As Clark approached the the stairs, Bruce called out, “Oh, and Clark?

 

Clark twisted around. “Huh?”

 

“Thanks.”

 

Clark grinned. “It’s called friendship. Disgusting, isn’t it?”


	6. bruce & dick

“Hey? Hey, Bruce?”

 

Waking up was more like a slow, clumsy swim to the surface - his head felt lined with lead, with how hard it was to pull off of the pillows. He blinked blearily, trying to focus the image in front of him.

 

“Hey, Bruce.” A hand came out - Bruce’s fist wrapped around the wrist in a crushing grip. Dick gasped.

 

Bruce dropped the hand like he’d been burned. “Hnnh. Dick?”

 

“That hurt, you cranky geezer,” Dick mumbled, rubbing at his wrist. It had hurt - Bruce had felt something pop. The familiar weight of guilt, it seemed, did not care how conscious the guilty was.

 

“Hnngh.” Bruce scooted over, wordlessly patting the bed beside him.

 

Dick hopped up, snatched the blanket, and pulled it around him. Bruce buried his face back into the pillow, ready to be dead to the world for at least four more hours. This was their ritual, every other night - Dick would have a nightmare, and he’d skitter down the hall, and Bruce would growl and roll over and that would be that. Any other night, Dick would bundle into the blankets, and once he fell asleep, he’d become something of a parasite - he would kick Bruce in the side a couple times, and then he’d wrap around Bruce’s arm like an endangered subspecies of spider monkey. 

 

Tonight, Dick curled up around his knees. Briefly, Bruce mourned his sleep schedule, and he elbowed Dick in the side. “What’s the problem.”

 

“Why’s there - why’s there gotta be a problem?”

 

There was a tremor in his voice. Bruce pulled himself up, and stared at Dick expectantly.

 

Dick’s eyes were impossibly owlish when they blinked up at him. Christ, he was shaking like a leaf.

 

Bruce sighed, and wrapped an arm around Dick’s thin shoulders - Dick took it as an opportunity to launch himself at Bruce, curling into him like a baby kangaroo. Bruce rubbed circles into his back, and tucked Dick’s dark curls under his chin. 

 

“I - I had a dream,” Dick whispered. “I had a dream, it’s the same dream, except y-you were the one falling and - and - and - “

 

“Shhh,” Bruce rumbled. “I’m here, you’re safe.”

 

Dick heaved a sob into Bruce’s neck, and Bruce rocked him. He’d done this before - he’d maybe even gotten good at it. It was in Dick’s nature to seek out contact, to seek out companionship, and as cruel and jaded as Bruce could be, he could never deny a grieving child that. He held Dick until the sobbing subsided into harsh breathing.

 

“Bruce,” Dick murmured. “Bruce, I - I don’t want to lose you.”

 

“You won’t.”

 

“Promise?”

 

“Promise.”

 

Bruce must have dozed off, because the next thing he remembered was Dick crawling off him, whining, “You drooled in my hair!”

 

Bruce scrubbed at his eyes. “Hmngh.”

 

Dick hit him in the shoulder. “Nasty.”

 

Bruce caught his elbow, and inspected his wrist. There’d be a ring of bruises -Bruce felt the burn of that, deep in his chest, and if it were possible, he’d gladly cut off his own hand just to see those bruises fade. “Does it hurt.”

 

“Ah, uh - maybe a little.”

 

Bruce pressed a kiss to the top of his wrist. “My mother used to do that.”

 

“Mine, too,” Dick said, and he snuggled into Bruce’s side. “Don’t drool into my hair this time, you old fart.”

 

Bruce ruffled his hair, and dropped back into the pillows.


	7. bruce & dick

He’s read the same paragraph over about ten times. Dick still had no idea what book he was even reading; his eyes kept flitting over to Bruce rather than across the page, needing to see the rise and fall of the man’s chest beneath the blankets. 

 

The half of Bruce’s face facing Dick was swollen like a black-and-blue beachball - the slit of his eyelid seemed to be halfway down his face, like he was a wax sculpture and someone had held a candle too close. He’s seen Bruce beat to hell enough times in the past year that it’s hard to remember what it was like to be a kid, what it was like to be Robin, and to believe that Batman was invincible.

 

Dick tossed his book on the floor, and gingerly picked up Bruce’s hand. “You’ve really done it this time, haven’t you.”

 

Of course, there was no answer. Bruce’s spine had been snapped in half only a week ago; he was on enough painkillers to get a small elephant high - when he slept, it was the sleep of the dead.

 

But on the off chance that it could help, Dick continued, stroking over Bruce’s knuckles with a thumb. “I heard you were sick. And that you, in your infinite wisdom, decided it would be a good idea to run the gauntlet half-dead - you seriously had Tim practically grounded? Are you _kidding_ me?”

 

Alfred had called him - if his voice over the phone had sounded broken, his voice in person had sounded shattered. _Fracture to the tenth and eleventh thoracic vertebrae… may never walk again…_

 

“I - I never wanted to see this,” Dick murmured. It seemed wrong, to speak louder than a breath - the silence of Bruce’s room was absolute, sacred. “You’re killing yourself. I _can’t_ watch this. Don’t make me watch you lose, Bruce.”

 

Dick bowed his his head, pressing Bruce’s fingers to his lips. “Don’t you dare lose. Don’t you dare.”

 

Bruce’s fingers squeezed his, gently, and Dick looked up to find Bruce’s one visible eye staring right through him. 

 

“I’m not gonna leave you,” Bruce rasped, with his reedy, hoarse voice, the one that filled Dick with pure fear. 

 

“You say that. You’ve said that. But I don’t believe it,” Dick whispered. “Because I feel like I’m gonna wake up one of these days and you won’t be here. Bane dumped you in the street like a bag of garbage, and if there’s a snowball’s chance you’ll ever walk again, I know you’ll keep doing this - this thing, you do, where you…”

 

_Leave me,_ is what Dick didn’t say, because terror had choked him.

 

“I’m here.”

 

“You’re not, though, not really,” Dick said, feeling the slight tremble of Bruce’s hands beneath his. “You’re not. Jason was your world, I know that, he was everything to you, and you lost him - but please, please don’t make me loose you. If I ever meant _anything_ to you at all - “

 

Bruce’s fingers caught his chin, and tilted his head back up, so he was facing Bruce again. “I… scared you.”

 

“Oh, wow, do you use that brain to solve cases, Sherlock.”

 

Bruce’s thumb wiped away the tears on his cheeks. Dick hadn’t realized he was crying - he hadn’t realized how carried away he was getting. Hell, Bruce was the one who had just been through the proverbial meat grinder, and Dick had decided _now_ was a good time to blubber all over him?

 

He didn’t push Bruce’s hand away, though, and he didn’t draw back when Bruce reached for his hand again. Maybe it was the terror, or maybe it was the peace, the peace that begged to be upheld, the peace that refused anything that wasn’t quiet or kind.

 

“I’m here. I won’t leave you. Not if… you need me.”

 

“It’s not about need,” Dick said, thumbing a circle on the back of Bruce’s hand, “it’s about want. I wouldn’t drop dead if you died. I won’t go on a campaign of self-destruction until I paralyze myself, or anything. But I’d want you here, because I’d miss you.”

 

“Smart - smart pup. Smarter… smarter than me… ”

 

Dick stood, feeling his joints pop - he’d been sitting down for four hours, now. “Get some rest, old man.”

 

Dick leaned forward, and pressed a kiss to the unblemished side of Bruce’s forehead. The man was already asleep. 

 

Dick shuffled around, cleaning off dressers and bedside tables packed with glinting bottles of alcohol, half-empty bottles of cold medicine, and towering stacks of paper with the Wayne Enterprises logo stamped on them - Bruce was never this messy. Dick’s room as a kid had always been like a hurricane had made its home in the closet, and it had frustrated Bruce to no end. It was a Robin’s cardinal sin to leave anything unorganized, and Bruce had made sure to bust into Dick’s room at five in the morning to clean until things were spick-n-span, and Dick would curl up and moan from beneath the pillows about the great unfairness of life. 

 

Dick was in the business of returning favors, so he straightened up; he poured the alcohol down the sink, and tossed the cold medicine in the trash, and ferried the stacks of work into the study. When everything was nice and tidy, he left, because there comes a point in every disaster where you simply have to look away.


	8. dick & damian

“You love me, right?”

 

Damian’s voice was small, nearly lost in the hum of the air conditioning in Dick’s apartment.

 

“Of course,” Dick replied, immediately, because it’s true. Sometimes he looked at Damian and felt as if there was an anaconda bearing down on his chest, his heart was so filled with emotion.

 

Dick craned his head to peer at Damian’s face - the kid was a talented liar, but he had tells, if you knew how to read him. “Damian?”

 

The kid’s brows were furrowed, jaw thrust out. Dick felt his heart drop. “Damian, hey. Do you hear me?”

 

Damian licked his lips. “My mother. My mother loved me, she loved my father. But.”

 

There was something Damian was struggling to verbalize - Dick could see the scrunched brows, the mouthing out of the words. Dick scooted over, and patted the spot on the couch beside him. “C’mere.”

 

The look Damian shot him was skeptical. 

 

“It always works for me,” Dick said. Damian gave the couch a probing look, like a horde of scorpions were hiding beneath the cushions, and then bunched over. Dick tossed a corner of the blanket over him. 

 

“My mother loved me - but why did she… ”

 

 _Break your heart at every turn_ , Dick thought to himself, savagely. 

 

“You. You love me.” Here, Damian’s eyes flicked to Dick’s, as if to confirm, and Dick nodded. 

 

“’Course. You’re very lovable.”

 

“Tt. You love me, but you - you - you never… forced me. No.” Damian’s fist curled in his hair, and he started pulling.

 

Dick gently unwrapped Damian’s fingers, took them in his hand. “I don’t think - I don’t think all love is a good thing.”

 

“I’m not saying this as I would like to,” Damian growled. “My mother told me to… be something, and I would become that.”

 

“She told you to jump, and you asked how high.”

 

“Yes. She - she did that because she loved me. But you love me, and you have… never… ”

 

“Because I don’t think you need to be anything other than what you are to be perfect.”

 

“But what I am, was created by my mother.”

 

Dick studied a thin scar on Damian’s hand. “And you’re perfect. If Bruce had raised you, you’d still be perfect. If you’d been dumped in an orphanage, you’d have been perfect.”

 

Damian’s head leaned against his arm. He was silent for a long moment, and then he said: “You… might have been right about the blanket, Grayson.”

 

“‘Course I am.”

 

“Tt. It doesn’t make up for the rest of the drivel that comes out of your mouth.”

 

Dick chuckled. “I stand by what I say. Don’t ever change, Damian.”

 

He ruffled the kid’s hair, and pressed a kiss to his temple. Damian elbowed him in the stomach.

 

Dick vaulted over the back of the couch, laughing. “If you’re staying the night, I should message Alfred, so World War III doesn’t erupt. We can finally watch Lord of the Rings.”

 

Dick rummaged in the cabinet. “I have - aha - one thing of popcorn left, you’re in luck.”

 

“If it has butter in it, I will cut off your hands.”


	9. bruce & clark

Dinah popped a jelly bean in her mouth. “What are we watching?”

 

Oliver was laying in her lap, thumbing through a magazine. Hal had constructed a fort of pillows on the floor beside them.

 

“Just scoot over,” Barry said. “Look, you’ve got like a solid five inches, there’s room for me.”

 

“No, I made this,” Hal said, stubbornly crossing his arms. 

 

Diana was propped in Oliver’s black leather recliner, still wearing her slightly smoldering armor, because nothing Dinah owned could reasonably fit her. Clark was in a similar position - the Kryptonian suit was still going through the process of knitting itself together, and the motion of the bands of alien fabric was oddly soothing. 

 

It had been a hard battle - Hal was holding an ice pack to a blackened eye, Barry resting a few bruised ribs, Diana was still wiping blood from a wicked cut on her shoulder, Oliver favoring his right arm. Bruce himself could feel the pounding pain in his knee and the wasted mess he called his right shoulder these days, a cracked rib that was making it hard to breathe that deeply. A hard battle, but a satisfying one. The exhausted burn of his muscles was pleasant, the treat of Oliver’s whiskey even more so.

 

“What are we watching?” Clark asked. “I could go for a movie.”

 

Bruce swallowed a groan - perhaps he should have taken his chance, and headed back for Gotham. 

 

“Dinah, babe, what do we have on the rack here?” Oliver asked, tossing aside his magazine, which landed squarely on Hal’s lap. 

 

“Better Home and Garden, Ol, seriously?”

 

“Twelve Angry Men, Metropolis, er, It Happened One Night, and I think Mark of Zorro?” Dinah replied, speaking over Hal. “You wanted to show me the brilliance of black and white movies.”

 

“If you make me sit through Twelve Angry Men again I’m going to punt you into the sun,” Hal growled. 

 

“Black and white movies? Aren’t those a bit - well, boring?” Barry asked.

 

Oliver jolted up so fast he knocked Dinah in the chin. “Boring? These movies are total masterpieces, have you even seen Metropolis - “

 

“The naming is unfortunate,” Clark quipped, which got a general laugh from the group of them, and safely diffused whatever tirade Oliver was ready to unleash. 

 

Diana leaned over to peer into the magazine Hal was now flipping through with an absent expression of disgust. “That’s a wonderful flower arrangement. Is there a broader selection of film?”

 

“Ah, no, we just brought them here for a weekend,” Dinah explained. 

 

Oliver winked. “It was a fun weekend.”

 

“Oh, gross,” Hal moaned, slapping him on the arm. “Just turn on Mark of Zorro. That’s a damn good movie.”

 

It was. It had been. The thing about the sudden strike of tragedy was that it threw every mundane detail before it into sharp relief, like the long cast of shadow against marble; he remembered the Mark of Zorro in every breath, every twitch of it. He remembered that movie, and the bloodbath that came after it, better than he remembered his parents, even.

 

“Oh, uh,” Clark fumbled with the edge of his cape. “Actually, I was kind of curious about - “

 

“Mark of Zorro,” Bruce growled, tipping back his glass. The whiskey burned nicely. He probably would have left for Gotham already, if not for the pleasure of Oliver’s whiskey. 

 

Clark eyed him, and Bruce gave him a short nod. The look on Clark’s read  _I know this is going to end badly, but I can’t stop you._

 

“I know admitting you and Hal like the same movie had to have caused you physical pain, but you could at least try not to say it like you’re doing your vengeance and the night bit,” Oliver said. “I might have peed a little. I didn’t even think you were still here.”

 

Hal groaned. “Don’t say it out loud, that makes it real.”

 

Dinah popped in the movie, and Oliver passed out bags of chips, and Hal staged a small rebellion and made a bowl of popcorn, which Clark and Barry immediately started stealing out of. Eventually, though, the movie got started, and Bruce found himself mouthing the words - that funny thing, about tragedy.

 

It occurred to him that this was a movie Jason would have enjoyed, once upon a time. Jason, as a kid, had been attracted to the same things Bruce had been - action, adventure, the wilder the better. Bruce pulled his phone out of his pocket, thumbed through his text messages; his conversations with Jason were short, mostly locations and the letter ‘k’, nothing of substance. He dropped it in his lap, tugged out his wallet, and and pried out the picture of Jay he kept by his side. It was well-worn, faded. It had seen a lot of love, over the years. He held the picture, let his thumb run over it, and downed the rest of his drink.

 

“Why can she not fend for herself?” Diana asked. “Lolita is important to the plot only as a love interest. And Inez is as shallow as Zorro pretends to be, but she has no character outside of that.”

 

Clark munched on popcorn. “The joys of the 1940s.”

 

“See, Diana, we need to get together and - ”

 

Oliver was interrupted by a concussive snore from Barry, who was drooling on Hal’s shoulder. For his part, Hal hadn’t seemed to notice the small ocean building up on his shoulder. 

 

The normality, the domesticity of it, made Bruce’s gut writhe like a python. In the next room, he told himself, there’s someone waiting who can end all of this - in the next room, down the next hall, a hop and a skip and a jump, the alleyway down. There is always someone waiting.

 

Bruce dropped his glass on the floor, and stalked out of the den - Oliver’s condo in Seattle was modest, designed more like a cabin than the designated residence of a multi-billionaire. Bruce rather liked it, usually - it was tight and walled in, plenty of places to hide. Tonight, it meant more places for men like Joe Chill to disappear - and Bruce knew he wouldn’t be able to rest if he didn’t turn over every inch of the condo. 

 

He felt, more than heard, Clark come up behind him. 

 

“Save it,” Bruce snapped.

 

“I was going to offer to search the bedrooms, if you wanted.”

 

Bruce turned, studying Clark’s face - it was an earnest face, unsettling in its honesty. “You… can.”

 

Clark nodded, and disappeared. He came back after a minute - slow enough to let Bruce know he’d looked, but fast enough that he’d still have used super speed. The panic - the itch just beneath his skin - wouldn’t leave, like every time he turned about, something manifested in the long shadows behind him. It wouldn’t be the first time. 

 

He could hear the end of the movie - the fear, the one that was always there, mounted in his chest. When he’d come back from the alley that night, he’d been splattered in the gray matter that had once been his mother’s brain. He’d picked it out of his hair. His clothes hadn’t been much better - the knees of his pants were soaked with blood, his shirt splattered. He hadn’t known what to do with the clothes, so he’d tucked them beneath his bed, and one day about a year later he’d come home to find Alfred, head bent, shoulders shaking, holding the pile of clothes in his lap - 

 

He was outside, Clark next to him. The bench was cold, bitterly so - that night in the alley had been blazing hot. The blood had felt like liquid fire. 

 

“You’re always right, aren’t you,” Bruce whispered. 

 

“I’d like to get a tape of you saying that, if it’s not too much trouble.”

 

Bruce pressed his palms into his eyes. “It’s - it’s a movie. It is a _movie_ , and nothing else.”

 

Clark didn’t say anything, and Bruce cut his eyes at him. 

 

“What? I’m not gonna tell you that you’re wrong.”

 

“Well, you just did.”

 

“Only because you already knew I was going to disagree. Bruce, you’re not - you’re not a tank, right? You can’t try and force your way through everything, You can’t - I don’t know, put more armor on top and expect it to be fine.”

 

Bruce studied his hands. “Clark. Stop making sense when I’m tired and drunk.”

 

“I don’t know, I like hearing you admit I’m always right.”


	10. dick & wally

“Oh my God. Holy fuck, man.”

 

Wally grinned around a mouthful of pizza, and Dick was too thunderstruck to even wince a little. Alfred would’ve shot Wally no less than twice. “Three. Three large pizzas, from Antonio’s, and their large is about the size and weight of a six year old.”

 

Wally opened his mouth to speak, but only an extended burp came out. This time, Dick did wince, and he balled up some greasy napkins and threw them at Wally’s head. “Hey, man, have a little respect.”

 

“Dick, no offense, but the dust bunnies under your couch have bred more dust bunnies.”

 

“The dust bunnies are respected members of this household.”

 

“Whatever helps you with the loneliness. And are we watching Mean Girls, still?”

 

“Yeah, queue it up,” Dick said. He thought for a minute, and then continued, “and I am not - _lonely_.”

 

“No, no, you are.”

 

“No, no, you’re wrong.”

 

Wally sat up, rubbing a smudge of pizza sauce from his chin. “Believe me when I say this, I’ve known you for a while now. And you are basically the crazy old cat lady down the street, who only ever speaks to her cats, except instead of cats you have cactuses.”

 

“It’s cacti, and they require basically no water, and I think they brighten up the place,” Dick said, gesturing to the row of tiny, potted cacti by his window. 

 

“You are the crazy cactus man, man. It is you.”

 

“Don’t judge me by my plants, Wally,” Dick said, hitting play on the movie. He tossed the remote possibly harder than intended, and Wally raised an eyebrow. 

 

“Does the idea of being judged by your plants bother you?”

 

“Kind of, I think they’re cute.”

 

Wally hauled himself up, which must have taken considerable effort, because he’d eaten at least twice his weight in pizza and wings. “No, I meant, are you bothered by being, y’know? Or did you just not know?”

 

“How in the hell does someone miss being lonely,” Dick muttered. 

 

Wally took a sip from his cup of soda. “You might be, like, the most normal of your - uh - “

 

“Family?”

 

“ - that. You might be the most normal, and least weird - “

 

“Those mean the same things.”

 

“ - shut your mouth - you’re still not the pinnacle of self-realization. And because I am the greatest, I’ll break it down for you.”

 

Dick rolled his eyes. “Oh, yes, analyze me, Doctor Phil.”

 

Wally waggled his eyebrows. “Ooh, Dr. Phil, _ooh_.”

 

Dick slapped him on the ankle. Wally was still splayed out, spread eagle, over most of his couch, while Dick was sitting on the arm of it, perched a bit like a bird. “Get to the point, or I’m gonna kick you out for insulting my plants.”

 

“Your plants are very cute. But, newsflash - which, by the by, _is_ a pun - you like people. You don’t have a lot of people, though. You have cactuses.”

 

“Cacti, and they’re a lot nicer to both me and my horde of dust bunnies than you are.”

 

Wally yawned. “Played by plants. But you know what I’m saying? I worry about you, trapped alone in your ivory tower.”

 

“I think I’ll survive just fine. And where did we put the barbecue wings? Now that you’re not stuffing your face, I actually kind of want to eat,” Dick said, peering around. 

 

“Oh, I ate those. And survival is not actually the goal. Living is.”

 

Dick glared at him, open-mouthed with outrage. “I was looking forward to those, you pig. I offer you my Netflix, and this is what I get?”

 

“Avoidance, neat. You never change,” Wally said, nudging him with a foot. “C’mon, yell at me to get off your couch. Assert your dominance. I’m being a horrible guest.”

 

“No, that’d be rude. And I’m not avoiding anything, I’m just pointedly not recognizing bullshit claims.”

 

“Whenever I, resident expert on the care and keeping of your local Nightwing, notice something about you, it’s not a bullshit claim just because you don’t like it,” Wally said, curling back to occupy a more reasonable two-thirds of the available couch space. “Next up: why are you always buying couches that are about three feet long?”

 

“Don’t be reasonable at me after you ate my wings, man,” Dick whined, slipping down to sit halfway on the couch, halfway on the armrest. 

 

“Listen, you’re a hermit cactus man. I’m a social butterfly bro. Everyone’s different. Everyone’s beautiful. You’re the most beautiful human I’ve met, and I’ve met myself, but that doesn’t change the fact you probably sing your cactuses lullabies.”

 

“Talking to them helps them grow. Did you just call me beautiful?”

 

Wally blinked. “No, did you just admit to singing songs to your cactuses?”

 

“I mean, I sing sometimes when I’m cleaning, and maybe the cacti like it. But did you just call me beautiful?”

 

“What the hell? Since when do you sing?” Wally sat up, and folded his legs beneath him. He steepled his hands like a professor after finding a particularly interesting bit of information.

 

“Since Bad Romance was the world’s most singable song, and you call me an avoider?”

 

“Well, yeah, you’re beautiful. It’s kind of a no-brainer. Are you seriously one of those people who doesn’t know that they’re beautiful?”

 

When Dick didn’t respond, Wally groaned. “Oh my God, you totally are. You’re a cactus hermit, you sing to your cactuses, and you don’t know you’re gorgeous. This isn’t real life, this is a Hallmark movie.”

 

Dick tossed a throw pillow at him. “Oh, shut it, Wally.”

 

“Miss and-slash-or mister right is going to come marching down the hall any minute to complain about all the racket you’re making to make your bullshit plants happy, just you wait.”

 

Dick laughed, ducking his head to hide the heat on his cheeks. “Shut the hell up, man. I’m starting to think you’re hitting on me.”

 

“No, no, no, absolutely not,” Wally said, raising his hands in surrender. “I’m exempt from your ginger fetish.”

 

 _“Ginger fetish_ \- ”

 

“If you deny this, I’m actually going to think you have the emotional intelligence of a rock, or a very, very dumb lizard.”


	11. bruce & dick

Bruce let Dick think he couldn’t hear the sniffling - it was a testament to how upset the kid was that he didn’t notice Bruce wasn’t heading back to the Cave. He didn’t realize until Bruce pulled to a stop fifteen minutes outside the city limits, and pulled into an abandoned warehouse.

“Where are we?” Dick asked, voice cracking halfway through - some of it was puberty, of course. His son had shot up like a weed, the last six months. He was going through costumes about as fast as he went through Alfred’s beef tortelloni. 

“I owe you a talk.”

Dick flushed. “No, no, I don’t - I seriously don’t need - “

 _“Not_  that kind of talk. Unless that’s the talk you  _want_  to have.”

“Ah, no, no, I’m good. I’m…” Dick trailed off. “Good. So good. In fact, you should never, ever suggest that, ever again.”

“Good,” Bruce rumbled. He wished he hadn’t pulled over, for this conversation. Driving would’ve given him something to focus on. “Do you want to talk about it.”

“About…?”

“The crime scene we saw tonight. Is that something you need to talk about.”

“Are you asking me about my feelings?” Dick asked, incredulous. “Wait, can you repeat that? I want this on video.”

Bruce sighed. “Dick, this is serious. I didn’t intend for you to see something like that.”

Dick shook his head. “I’m fine, really, but - what do you mean by ‘didn’t intend’?”

“You know there are cases I don’t tell you about,” Bruce said. When Dick nodded, he continued: “Some of the cases I get are… they’re awful, Dick. There’s some things I won’t let you see.”

Dick bristled. “I’m mature enough to - “

“Nobody is,” Bruce cut in, with a growl. “The first time I saw the Joker’s handiwork, I spent half an hour throwing up into a dumpster. If I have trouble handling it, you won’t be able to.”

Dick grimaced. “I bet that was a sight to see.”

Bruce shrugged. “I’ve seen worse, now. It’s harder when it catches you off guard.”

Dick curled up in the seat, wrapping his arms around his legs. There was a pregnant pause, filled with nothing but their breath - no reason to waste fuel by leaving the Batmobile running. “How… how do you handle it?”

Bruce thought of the nightmare he’d had two days ago - about Doug White, a missing persons case, from back when he’d first started as Batman. He’d found his corpse being eaten by rats in the sewers. The nightmare had been his bloated, rotting body, covered in waste and open, maggot-infested sores where the rats’ teeth had torn through the skin, lumbering towards him. He hadn’t been able to move - all he could do was stand there, until Doug got close enough that Bruce could smell the stench of carrion, hear the  _gnawing_ he’d heard when he’d first found him. The wet, awful sound of it, like a thousand hogs dining on a thousand slop dinners.

“I don’t,” he admitted, quietly. Maybe it was the rawness of that nightmare, or the fact that he hadn’t slept since, maybe it was Dick’s expectant -  _innocent_  - stare, but tonight, he was honest. “Not really. But talking about it has always helped you.”

Dick studied his green boots. “I don’t know. It’s just… why do people do this stuff?” His voice cracked, and this time, it didn’t sound like just puberty. “It’s just - it’s, God, it’s awful. Did you see what that kid looked like, when they were carting him off?”

Bruce closed his eyes. He hadn’t regretted breaking the father’s arm. It was a compound fracture, too - he’d feel it when it got cold and rainy. He’d never forget what Batman did to him. 

Dick wiped his eyes. “He was so… thin. And the scars. What kind of bastard cuts up their own kid like that?”

Bruce was all out of words - once, maybe, he might have understood the average violent criminal’s insatiable need to lash out, the dark and ugly thing that drove him out night after night only to come back with blood-soaked hands and a growing belief that, perhaps, the world deserved to burn after all. But even on his darkest days, he’d never understood what sort of internal wrongness compelled people to hurt children. They were just  _kids._

So, instead, he went with something he knew would always calm Dick down, when he was worked up - a hug. He pulled Dick against him, and Dick relaxed into his side, arms snaking around Bruce’s torso on instinct. Dick would always be a very tactile kid.

It must be affecting Dick worse than he’d thought, because he started sobbing against the armor. Bruce felt like an icy hand had grabbed his heart, twisted, and popped it straight out of his chest.

“I always hated seeing you cry,” Bruce grunted, and he reached into the compartment against the door to grab a pack of tissues. 

“R-real sentimental, big guy. You - you sure you ain’t been replaced by b-body snatchers?”

He shoved the tissue pack into Dick’s lap. “Wipe snot on me, and you’re grounded.”

 _“That’s_  more like it.”


	12. bruce & clark

“You’re going to hurt yourself.”

Bruce didn’t acknowledge him, letting his fists kept pummeling the bag, in perfect form. Blood had already started to seep through the tape over his hands. The gym echoed with the rattle of the chain; it was the smaller gym, the one made for the founders, where they didn’t have to come in full battle armor in order to keep sharp.

“Put a past tense on that,” Clark said, and he dropped on the bench to watch - he didn’t often get the chance to watch Bruce fight. It was savage - perfectly aimed hits, to cause the most pain, but the least damage. It almost made him feel sorry for the dark underbelly of Gotham.

Eventually, Bruce threw a final punch, and leaned his forehead against the bag, huffing. He was drenched in sweat, listing slightly - he probably should’ve stopped an hour ago. Maybe a year ago, he would have. “What are you doing here.”

“Well, I was going to work out,” Clark said. It wasn’t a lie - he hadn’t even known Bruce was here, wouldn’t have guessed he was, because Bruce’s visits to the Watchtower were sporadic at best, lately. It was even questionable whether he’d come in for the bi-monthly meetings, or whether Clark would have to email him a list of the points discussed and the things agreed upon. 

Bruce grunted, and turned away. “Don’t let me stop you.”

“I’m feeling more in the mood for tacos, actually.” 

Bruce unraveled the tape, tearing it off his split knuckles. “No one is stopping you from getting tacos, Clark.”

“I’m waiting for you,” Clark said, pleasantly. “You’re coming with me.”

Bruce gave him a flat, angry look, over his bleeding fist. He slung his duffel over his shoulder and stalked off.

Clark jogged to catch up with him. “It’s just, I haven’t seen you in a while, and I was thinking - “

“You thought wrong,” Bruce growled, pushing his way past the doors. He was heading to the zeta platform.

“I mean, we don’t have to get tacos,” Clark said, following. “Ice cream? I could go for some ice cream.”

Bruce’s expression turned thunderous - brows drawn tight, jaw clenched. Christ, he looked like he hadn’t slept in a week. “I don’t know what sort of intervention you’re - “

Clark raised his hands. “That’s a little defensive for a suggestion just to hang out, don’t you think? It was just a thought.”

Bruce grit his teeth, blowing air out of his nose like a bull. He stopped at the zeta panel, smashing in coordinates. “I’m not in the mood.”

Clark shrugged. “Alright, alright. That’s all you had to say.”

Bruce turned around and gave him a disbelieving look, one thick eyebrow raised.

“What? I won’t press.”

“You have never left something alone in your entire life,” Bruce huffed. The gathering light of the zeta beam cast his face in faded, pale colors.

Clark gestured to his hand, which was still dripping blood. “That’s a health concern, you know. You should let me wrap those up.”

“My blood’s fine.”

“It could still cause panic,” Clark said. 

Bruce sighed, and stared at the green discharge switch longingly. “If I bandage it, will you leave me be.”

“Oh, definitely.”

“That doesn’t mean you can show up at the Cave with ‘evidence’ later. Or tacos, or ice cream. In fact, if I see you at all for the next week, I’ll take it out of your hide.”

Clark snorted. “It was one time, and you were being stubborn.”

Bruce gave him a glare that told Clark what he thought of that, and then he jabbed the kill switch, and fell into step beside Clark to the medbay. His walk was shuffling, his shoulders slung low. Clark hadn’t noticed it, at first, because it was normal, these days. 

When they got to the medbay, Bruce dropped his duffel, and hauled out the works - antiseptic compound, clean bandages, damp cloth. He was done before Clark could think of something to say, something beyond  _I miss seeing you_  and  _I’m really scared that every time I see you, it’s going to be the last_ and  _I’m sorry I have no idea what I’m doing, I’ve never lost a son before. I don’t know how to talk to you anymore._

“Don’t say it,” Bruce said.

“What?”

Bruce rubbed a hand over his eyes. “Whatever you’re going to say to me, don’t. Just don’t.”

Clark hummed. “I couldn’t actually figure out a way to say it, is the thing.”

“Oh, perfect.”

Clark sighed. “I just miss you, is all.”

“What happened to not being able to figure out a way to say it,” Bruce groused, studying the palms of his hands. 

Clark turned to face him, and Bruce wouldn’t look up. “I couldn’t figure out a way to say it that doesn’t activate your feelings allergy.”

“Feelings allergy,” Bruce said, quietly, like he was testing the words. “Hm. I think I prefer emotionally resistant.”

“It does sound more manly, yeah,” Clark agreed. 

Bruce chuckled - less of a chuckle, really, more of an amused whuff of air. Because, of course, he didn’t laugh anymore. 

They sat there for a while, just enjoying each other’s company. That was how it used to be - hours spent working in the Cave, in the Fortress, in the Watchtower, all affable silence. Sometimes, Clark would ask a question, and Bruce would respond with a gesture or a grunt. Eventually, Bruce slid off of the cot, picked up his duffel, and disappeared silently down the hall. Clark still hadn’t figured out what to say. He was starting to think he never really would.


	13. bruce & dick

Water rushed up his throat, and he flipped over, coughing it out on the ground. Ground. Cement. Sidewalk? Who had - 

“Calm down,” Bruce rumbled, thumping his hand against Dick’s back, hard enough to make Dick hack out a few pathetic spurts of water. 

“Where - where - “

“Quiet,” Bruce said. The thumping turned into rubbing.

Dick sat up, and his head throbbed, hard, at his temples - everything was blurring at the edges. “Where,” he said, lamely.

Bruce brushed a few globs of congealed algae and pollution gunk out of his hair. “Mm. The port.”

Dick tried to move his legs, stand up, get going, but his nerve endings were still not attaching to his limbs, it seemed. “We… what am I thinking.”

“You were hit with knockout gas. What do you remember.”

Dick licked his lips, tasting the bitter, cold saltwater. “I… we were busting that shipment, the illegal arms. The… knockout gas. I fell over into the water. How did…”

Bruce must’ve dragged him here, which meant - “Tim - Damian, do they - “

“They can handle it,” Bruce said. “But we are stuck here until they find us. Unless you need to get to the medbay now.”

Dick shook his head, wincing when his headache mounted. “No, no, I’m fine - just cold. Just cold.”

He wasn’t even that cold - he wasn’t in danger of hypothermia, not in the middle of spring, but his teeth were chattering, and his head hurt, and the half of his body that had crashed into the water felt like one large bruise. 

Bruce hooked an arm underneath Dick’s, and hauled him up. “C’mon.”

“Where - “

“The alley,” Bruce grunted, pulling Dick’s arm across his shoulders. “We can’t sit on the street.”

They stumbled their way into the darkness of the alley - halfway, Dick tripped, and Bruce caught him and murmured, “Hold my hand. You’re going to be fine.”

it felt even colder, here, and Dick failed to suppress a shiver. Bruce eased him to the ground, pulled the catch on his cape, and wrapped it over Dick.

“Aw, come on,” Dick whined, pushing it away. “I’m not - “

Bruce growled, wordlessly, like he found Dick’s weak attempt at machoism offensive, and forced the cape back down. For extra measure, he even tucked it in, making sure Dick was completely bundled in it.

“I hate you,” Dick muttered. 

Bruce bowed his head. For a second, Dick’s heart dropped, and he opened his mouth to apologize for whatever it was he’d said wrong, but then he saw the small shake of his shoulders. Bruce was  _laughing_  at him. Not even with his fake laugh, either, it was the real, somewhat wheezy one, that sounded like a bullfrog had lost its voice in a singing contest.

Dick wanted to punch him in the shoulder, laugh, spout some quip, but his arm felt lined with lead. 

Bruce pulled another long, slick string of disgusting goop out of his hair. His expression beneath the cowl was placid. 

“Don’t tell me,” Dick mumbled. “Don’t say it.”

“You need a haircut.”

“You ruin everything.”


	14. bruce & dick

Bells. The noise he was hearing - bells.

“Up and at ‘em, Bruce,” a warm voice rumbled in his ear. “Oh, hell, you’re heavy. Maybe cool it with the kryptonite injections in your bones. Oracle, he’s got a gunshot wound to the stomach. I think it’s infected.”

He was standing. The world was made of blacks and grays and it was deathly, bitterly cold. Hands - those were hands - pulling at his arm, pulling it over a pair of shoulders. Robin’s.

“R… Robin.”

“Good morning, sunshine, nice to see you awake. We’re gonna take a step forward, alright? Just the one.”

The weight beside him - warm like the sun - shifted, and Bruce’s knees gave out beneath him. The ground was wet. Cold. There were bells.

“That was not good,” Robin said.

Bruce braced his palms against the ground and spat someone of the gritty water that had splashed into his mouth out - a shard of tooth glinted in the red spray. Not water.

“Aw, man, Bruce,” Robin whined. “You have to spit, or you’ll choke.”

Bruce coughed, and blood dripped to the ground in long, lazy strings. The pain, like the bells, was starting to come back to him - there was a throbbing hole in his stomach, his gut was beaten black and blue. The ache was making his fingers shake.

Arms pulled him up - he didn’t remember Robin being that strong. “Mmf - I know you’re listening, now. When we step, you’ve gotta step with me. You’re too heavy for me to carry.”

“No… Dick.”

“Yeah,” Dick said. “I’ve got you. Ready?”

Bruce’s whole body lurched, and Nightwing managed to catch him before he hit the ground. His hands were warm even through the suit. It was so cold.

They took another step. “You’ve got it. You’re on it. You’re gonna be just fine.”

Bruce grit his teeth. “Stop.”

Dick pulled them to a stop. “What’s up? Where’s it hurt?”

“No. Stop… talking.”

“Oh, you asshole,” Dick muttered. He hauled them into another step, and soon, they weren’t making bad time - Bruce’s nerve endings were now starting to think about returning to life.

“Bells,” Bruce growled, after a while. “What’s… bells.”

“There are no - I’m gonna sit you down real fast,” Dick said, and he lowered Bruce to the ground. Bruce wasn’t in a position to argue, but he wanted to.

Dick knelt in front of him, face distorted, like the reflection of a joke mirror. “I’m gonna pull the cowl off, okay? No one can see.”

“Where…”

“Sewers,” Dick explained, and he gently pushed his thumbs beneath the edge of the cowl and pulled it off. Bruce hadn’t realized how confining it was until it was off, and suddenly, he could breathe.

“Calm down, calm down,” Dick said, palm against Bruce’s chest. “Was it bothering you?”

“… breathe…”

“I bet. Your face looks like a balloon.” Dick turned Bruce’s head to the side - the touch was feather-light, like the grace of the sun on a warm spring day, and Bruce’s eyes fluttered shut. “Mm. Busted eardrum. As if you needed that on top of everything else.”

Bruce let his head fall forward into the crook of Dick’s shoulder, and Dick chuckled. “You’ve been napping for a while, lazy, you can do that later.”

But Dick didn’t force him awake - he let Bruce rest there, for a minute, hand warm on the back of Bruce’s neck. “Alright, come on. There’s a manhole not too far from here, and the Batmobile is just beside it. You think you can make?”

Bruce pressed his teeth together so hard they creaked, and pulled himself upright.

“Whoa, slow down,” Dick said, hands bracing his shoulders. “We can take it slow, alright?”

Dick pulled Bruce’s arm across his shoulders. “What do you remember?”

“Hngh. Explosion.”

“That’s right. Anything else?”

Bruce stumbled, but Dick caught him. “A… couldn’t talk. To you.”

“You turned your comm off. I’m gonna refrain from the ‘I told you so’ because I think you’re feeling it.” Dick guided them over an uneven break in the concrete. “You’ve been down here about seven hours. There was an explosion on the northside, you got caught in the middle.”

“Mmf.”

They hobbled along in silence - every so often, Dick would stop, because Bruce’s hands were shaking so bad he couldn’t hold on. Eventually, Dick lowered him to the ground at the foot of a ladder.

“Robin? You up there?” Dick called.

“Yeah, I’m here.”

“You’re gonna have to drop a grapple line,” Dick said. “And I’ll tie him up. We’ll have to pull him up, no way he’s making it up this ladder.”

Time seemed to blur. Dick hooked a cord beneath his arms. “Did you hear me? I’m gonna climb out first, and me and Robin are going to pull you out. You ready?”

Bruce caught his hand, held it. “Wait… wait. Dick. You said… if… if there was no Bruce, who raised you. I’m sorry. I’m sorry you had to ask.”

Dick gave him a soft, tender smile. “You have horrible, awful timing for these things. But… thanks, pops.”

It seemed like Dick argued with himself for a minute, and then he leaned forward, and pressed a soft kiss to the crown of Bruce’s forehead. Then he was gone, vaulting up the ladder.


	15. bruce & diana

Bruce rubbed at his mouth - the gouges in the gauntlets caught the three-day-old stubble smattering over his chin, and his lips curled in distaste. He was supposed to be writing a report. He couldn’t quiet convince himself to start tapping at the keys, and he told himself it was because he was tired. 

“That’s where you disappeared to,” Diana said, pleasantly. She was always saying something pleasantly. She came to lean against the console, sliding him a bagged sandwich and an iced coffee. “Enjoy. It is a very good sandwich.”

“Thanks,” Bruce muttered, sliding it to the side. 

Diana pushed it back with a raised eyebrow. “Eat, or I tell Clark about Nova Scotia.”

“You threaten that every time,” Bruce said, flatly.

“Because it is hilarious, and I always secretly hope you’ll let me tell him about it.”

Bruce leaned forward to take a sip of the coffee. “When I’m dead, princess.” 

When he didn’t immediately reach for the sandwich, Diana sighed, and pulled it out of the bag, holding it in front of him. “Here. I will feed you.”

Bruce scowled. “Put that down, I can feed myself.”

“I see no evidence supporting that,” she said, and now she was grinning. It was always hard not to laugh with her. 

“Shouldn’t you be in Boston, not pestering me,” he groused, leaning forward to take another sip from the coffee.

Diana shrugged. “I enjoy pestering you. Is it both hands that are hurting?”

“What.”

She nodded to the coffee. “You won’t pick it up. You’re in pain.”

“I’m used to it,” he said, with a wry twist of his mouth. She didn’t seem to find it very funny.

She lifted his hand, gently, and started working off his left gauntlet. He hissed when she pulled it over his fingers, and she gave him a pensive look he couldn’t quite decipher. The she was holding his hand, studying it. Her fingers were warm.

“Arthritis,” he supplied. “From my night job.”

“I see it on commercials,” she said, ghosting a finger across one of his swollen knuckles. “It looks painful.”

“It’s fine. I’m used to it,” he grunted. 

She rubbed a thumb over his knuckle. “My lasso,” she said, softly, “was made from Gaea’s girdle. It comes from the earth. Pain, and suffering… comes from being out of touch with the earth. Out of balance with its beauty.”

“I remember,” he said, with a grim smile. “Nova Scotia?”

She laughed, a sound like bells. “If you do not mind being honest, you can wear it. It would bring you… temporary relief. Granted that you don’t fight it.”

He looked a the golden, shimmering lariat Diana held in one of her hand - the idea of being compelled to speak the truth had always slighted him. The lasso had always seemed like a stripping of fundamental agency, of choice; instead of relying on someone to make the choice to be honest, it forced them to. But, perhaps, like with Diana herself, there might have been more to it than that. He would never pretend to understand how either worked.

He offered her his arm, and she looped the cord around it. It brightened at the contact, sparking like coals, and warmth flooded him - it was like sitting in a patch of summer sunlight, with the breeze rushing through the leaves of trees and the sounds of birds. 

The snarling mess of his left knee - which he’d probably need surgery for - was painless, the metal in his spine holding him together innocuous, the ugly ache of his right shoulder missing entirely. Hundreds of fractures and breaks reduced to nothing, hundreds more wounds stretching over his skin benign. It was like nothing he’d ever felt.

“Fuck,” he hissed.

Diana’s brow scrunched. “Does it hurt?”

“Not at all,” he said. “Just… new. Been a while.”

 _First time in over half a decade where nothing’s hurt_ , he thought. But Diana didn’t ask, so he didn’t say it. The lasso didn’t force you to speak, unless Diana wanted you to. 

“Good,” she said, sliding off the counter. “Enjoy the sandwich, Bruce. I’ll be back… soon.”

And then she was gone, footsteps loud and regal. Bruce leaned his head back against the chair, and breathed.


	16. bruce & dick

Waking up was like having hands wrap around his arms and haul him out of the water, bitter, cold wind beating his face - there was a scream, a shrill echo, like that of a bird dodging bigger, blood-soaked talons. It might have been his.

Dick’s breath raced in his chest, and his arm fumbled for the lamp, knocking over his glass of water and soaking his math homework. His fingers couldn’t seem to grip the latch. The longer it took, the higher his fear mounted - any moment now, something with claws and a toothy maw was going to grab his arm and pull it out of its socket, any moment now and he’d be dragged back under, any moment now and he’d be dragged off the side of the bed and he’d keep falling - 

He left the light off, wrapping his arms around the legs drawn up to his chest, trying to remember what air tasted like. His eyes flickered over every corner of the room, back and forth and back and forth, because every shadow looked like a looming creature the second you looked away. His breathing turned into a low keening, and he tried rocking himself like a baby, but that wouldn’t keep at bay the image of them -  _plunging_ - 

There was a knock at the door. Dick jumped out of his skin with a cut-off screech. 

“Sorry,” a soft voice called. Bruce must’ve heard the scream, of course, because Bruce had ears like - well, a bat. 

Dick hurriedly scrubbed hot tears off his face, and called - with a tremble evident even to his own ears - out, “It’s fine.”

The door opened, faintly, and was closed with the same delicate hand, and then Bruce was sitting on the edge of the bed, cast in blue from the dainty light of the stars outside. Dick couldn’t see his expression, but he’d bet his allowance that it was pinched and uncomfortable. 

 _Are you all right_ , was not what Bruce asked, nor did he ask  _do you want to talk about it_ , nor did he say anything at all. Instead, he turned so he was facing Dick, and scooted closer, with something like a discontented sigh. “You’re alright.”

Dick had been holding his breath, to keep from hyperventilating, and presently he gasped for air in thick, ugly heaves, trying and failing to smother the  _falling_  in his chest. He pressed his forehead to his knees so hard it hurt.

Gingerly, a broad hand ran up and down his back. Dick leaned into it, and then Bruce was shifting until he was behind him, and Dick could bury his face into Bruce’s side so nothing could see the tears pouring again down his face.

“You’re safe,” Bruce murmured. “You’re fine.”

 _My parents aren’t_ , Dick wanted to say. He couldn’t get in enough air to do so. 

“Relax,” Bruce said, and now his voice had a note of urging, a note of worry. 

“I c-can’t,” Dick gasped, “I c-c-can’t - I want my - “

“Just breathe,” Bruce said, breath tickling Dick’s curls. “Slow down.”

“I  _can’t,”_  Dick said, again, and his chest hurt because why couldn’t Bruce understand that he couldn’t, he just couldn’t, he, he - 

“Fairy tales,” Bruce sang - or, tried to, but his voice cracked, as if he hadn’t used it in a long time, as if he had to scrape off the rust. He tried again: “Fairy tales can come true, it can happen to you.”

He dragged out the syllables, voice lilting and quiet and deep enough that Dick could feel the vibration of it in his own chest. Dick was startled enough that, for a moment, he forgot to be scared.

“If you’re young at heart,” Bruce continued, voice stronger and smoother now, “For it’s hard, you’ll find, to be narrow of mind, if you’re young at heart.”

“Are… are you really singing?” Dick asked, quietly, voice muffled by Bruce’s sweater.  _Batman_ , of all people,  _singing_. 

Bruce responded with another verse: “You can go to extremes with impossible schemes, you can laugh when your dreams fall apart at the seams, and life gets more exciting with each passing day, and love is either in your heart, or on it’s way.”

“You’re a good singer,” Dick mumbled. The deepness of it was soothing, like thunder and the beat of rain.

“Don’t you know that it’s worth every treasure on Earth to be young at heart,” Bruce sang, finally, rubbing the ends of Dick’s hair. “For as rich as you are, it’s much better by far to be young at heart.”

For a moment, Bruce watched the kid evenly breathing, halfway collapsed in his lap, and said, “I can’t believe that worked.”

“I didn’t say stop,” Dick said. “Keep going. I like it.”

“If you say so.”


	17. bruce & damian

It’s always bothered him that Robin has no clearly defined role - Batman’s subordinate, and yet somehow his partner, Batman’s child, yet somehow his trainee. When Batman might require aid, it was Robin’s job to offer it. There were some things, however, Robin would never do. 

“Shh,” Bruce rumbled, petting the boy’s hair. “You’re fine, you’re just fine.”

The boy - several years younger than Damian - clung tighter to Bruce’s neck, wailing sobs punching the night air. Bruce tucked the boy’s head under his chin, wrapping his arms around the kid, muttering nonsense sentences: “It’s alright, it’s alright, I’m here. I know it doesn’t seem like it, but I’m going to take care of you.”

Damian kept himself carefully folded into the dark. He wouldn’t have wanted anyone to be privy to this sort of pathetic weakness. Better to spare the child what little dignity he would have left, after this. 

“Where is my mom,” the boy keened, and Damian studied the twist of Bruce’s face, as he listened to that.

“The police are looking for her,” Bruce said, quietly, one gauntleted hand curling around that fluff of white-blond hair. They were moving, now, slowly - Bruce was rocking him. “She’ll be fine. You’ll be fine. You’re alright.”

The wails faded into discontented sniffling, lulled by the consistent motion, and what the boy had to think was the safest place in the whole world - Batman’s arms. Damian thought of the morose tomb festooned by one cruel, severe light, the one that stood in the Batcave like a javelin for Batman to throw himself on with every passing glance. Foolish, to believe that anything was infallible. 

The boy had thrown himself at Batman, after they’d finished off the child’s abductors, in a way that was so trusting it shoved broken glass into Damian’s heart just to watch. Bruce had dropped to one knee to catch him, as if instinctual; there were some things only Batman could do, and making a victim feel protected was one of them. 

Damian closed his eyes against the scene in front of him, wondering. Wondering what his life could have been like, if Batman had dropped out of the sky when his mother was teaching him how to swallow his pain, if he could have thrown himself at Batman and Batman would’ve caught him just as naturally as he did the blond-headed boy, if Batman would’ve murmured  _I know it doesn’t seem like it, but I’m going to take care of you_  into his hair. 

It’s harder and harder to imagine that he wouldn’t. But it would’ve been nice to feel it. 


	18. bruce & dick

Once, he’d sat with Jason, before he’d died, and said, “Someday, you’ll know when, you’ll be in the thick of it, right? And, suddenly, the things you need to get done are going to split. Your problems are going to double. You’re in a burning building, the structure is failing, there are still people who need to get out. Someone’s bleeding, but the perp is getting away.”

He’d pinned Jason - Robin, rather, because the only times he’d really talked to Jason, it had been mask-to-mask - with a look and said, “He’s going to look at you, and he’s going to tell you to go. Get out of here. Start running, and don’t look back. Your job is to ignore him. Not all robins fly south for the winter.”

He’d been so angry, back then - it was like someone had thrust needles filled with white-hot fire through his pores. The cruelest thing he’d done to Jason was also the one thing he could never bring himself to apologize for: he hadn’t trusted Jason, not with Bruce. He could never apologize for that. He would never try. 

 _It sucked_ , he could imagine himself saying.  _But there are three people I truly trust with the man that raised me, and I’m at the top of that list. I made it hard on you. I’d do it again. You understand?_

The warehouse was painted in shades of ash and ink and acid green from the streetlamp outside. Dick pressed his heel into the floorboards, and they creaked under the added weight. The only sign of Bruce was the flash of white lenses from the corner of the room, folded deep into the shadows as if he had been born into them. Dick’s finger tapped the emergency beacon attached to his comm. 

“Hi,” Dick murmured, trying to pitch his voice as low and soft as possible. It would be harder for the toxin to corrupt, that way. 

There was the slightest shift from the corner, but the two slits moved not a millimeter. It felt a bit like he was being judged, like his heart was being weighed against a feather. Dick knelt down, scooting only a bit closer - the light from outside cast the blue stripes running down his arms into an alien, minty color. “It’s just me.”

“You can’t be Jason.”

Dick closed his eyes. The pain of it spread through him, like someone had let loose a butterfly with broken glass wings in his chest. “It’s not. It’s Dick.”

“Whoever you are,” Bruce snarled, leaning far enough forward so Dick could just see the cut of of Batman’s silhouette, “wherever you hide. you can’t  _run_ from me.”

 _Fuck._  

Bruce slithered out of the shadows. Dick was able to block the first few swings with ease. He’d known Bruce for so long he could often feel the way Bruce would move just before he did; he fought like a mammoth, an unstoppable force only ever moving forward. He was stacked for power, about four times as fast as he looked, and every hit landed with nothing less than absolute precision - kick in the teeth, hit to a nerve bundle, and it was that indomitable control that made him unnerving in a fight.  _What if_ , couldn’t help but float out of the haze of the fight,  _what would this look like if his temper wasn’t viciously reined_. 

The answer is that it would fucking hurt. Dick coughed, stumbling back and blocking a kick from Bruce’s left leg. Bruce took the opportunity to headbutt him, and Dick caught his head, kneeing him sharply in the spot he new the abdominal armor was weakest. 

“Who  _are you,”_  Bruce roared. Dick rolled, and Bruce’s fist plunged into the wall, throwing up a cloud of dust.  _“What have you done to him!”_

“I’m not Jason!” Dick shouted, but it was weak from the hits he’d taken. Dick just couldn’t bring himself to hit back hard enough. “I’m not, goddammit - he’s dead, Bruce!”

Bruce threw him to the ground, boot on his throat. “You killed him,” Bruce whispered, words like pearls on glass. “You killed him.”

Dick closed his eyes, focusing on forcing air through his throat. “B-B - “

“I would have given anything,” Bruce said, the leather caught in his curled fists creaking, “anything, anything to spare him that. My life. My parents’ lives. Anything. Of everything you could take - why  _him?”_

Bruce was stumbling backward, then, and sweet air was rushing into his chest. Dick hocked up spit, bracing himself against the floorboards with his palms. 

Bruce had backed up to the wall, and was curled against it. He pulled off the cowl, and was trying to suck in breath after breath after breath - when it failed to calm him down, he beat himself in the forehead with the flat of his palm.

Dick crawled over, lungs still shuddering, stomach still turning, and wrapped his hand around Bruce’s. The toxin was escalating fast. He didn’t have long before Bruce would be utterly beyond rational. 

“C’mon, stop this,” Dick murmured. 

Bruce was shuddering all over, starting to rock himself back and forth. His hand squeezed Dick’s until the bones creaked. “Jason. Jason.”

“He’s dead,” Dick whispered. 

“You’re dead.” And then Bruce was pulling Dick tight against him, like sheer force would save him, fingers dancing at the edges of - invisible burns. Christ. “I killed you.”

 _You’d better hurry up, Tim_ , Dick thought.

“Loved you, Jay,” Bruce choked out, head bent against Dick’s. “Loved you. Son.”

Behind the lenses, Dick looked away, and for a moment, he was anywhere but here, in a rotting room with a rotting heart listening to the words -  _word_  - he’d always wanted to hear, but were not for him.

“No one can hurt me like you can,” Dick said, quietly, and he closed his eyes, letting Bruce rock him back and forth with increasingly frantic energy. Anything to be anywhere but here.


	19. bruce & dick

Dick vaulted over the back of the couch, landing easily beside him. He stabbed a piece of sesame chicken with a fork, and took a big bite out of it. “Ooh, ginger. What are we watching?”

“Karate Kid,” Bruce rumbled.

“Wax on, wax off,” Dick quoted. “I haven’t seen this movie in ages, mind if I join?”

Bruce’s answer was to steal his fork, snag one of the chunks of chicken, and pop it in his mouth. “Too much ginger.”

“That’s a bad opinion,” Dick said, stealing his fork back. “This is quality Thai.”

“Yes, I’m sure the whole six dollars you paid for it put a massive dent in your trust fund,” Bruce said, sneaking another piece of chicken. “Whatever will you do.”

Dick bent forward, stealing Bruce’s water bottle and taking a swig of it. “Guess I can’t jet off to Costa Rica and host Rhianna next weekend, bummer. I’ll have to give her a rain check.”

“Send her my regards.”

Dick chuckled, spearing a piece of chicken and passing it wordlessly to Bruce. “Rhiannas aside, you still got Little Shop of Horrors lying around somewhere?”

“How many times to I have to live through the 80s,” Bruce muttered, fishing out the remote and tossing it to Dick.

Dick grinned. It’d been a while, since he’d gotten to see Dick that effortlessly happy. “C’mon, we haven’t had a movie marathon in ages. I have Thai, and I know for a fact there’s a carton of Rocky Road in there, and everyone else won’t be in for hours. It’s perfect. We don’t need to be heroes tonight.”

Bruce wore a thoughtful expression. “Rocky Road, you said.”

“There’s a pint of Double Chocolate Cake, too.”

“Bring me a spoon.”

Dick was a practiced liar, was uncannily talented at it, in fact, but there was a short list of people who could lie to Batman’s eyes. He knew Dick’s tells, possibly even better than he knew his own, and he knew  _Dick_ , possibly even better than he knew himself.

He could see the weight of stress in his eldest’s shoulders, the wear of many, many hard nights, like stress fractures. There had been little joy, here lately, to pin them together. When Dick had been a child, Bruce had thought that there couldn’t come a day where the brightness of his boy’s smile wouldn’t reach his eyes - that his soul was edged in too much good, too much light, to ever do anything but shine. He would give anything to have been right. 

Dick tossed a thick, dark blanket over him, dropped the pint of ice cream and a spoon in his lap, and settled back into his spot on the couch. “We can get Little Shop of Horrors on Amazon, right? And Gremlins, too?”

Bruce hummed. “That assumes that Gremlins is better than either Labyrinth or Dark Crystal.”

Dick’s mouth twisted bitterly around his spoon. “The giant vultures terrified me, and you know that.”

“Skeksis. I do know, because you wouldn’t sleep alone for a week.”

Dick shook is head, curls bouncing. “No, no, it wasn’t a week, more like a couple days, and you were annoyed for most of it. Footloose?”

“Hm. Last Unicorn.”

Dick laughed, open-mouthed and bright. “How much would you pay me not to tell anyone that’s your favorite movie?”

Bruce spooned ice cream into his mouth. “I’d advise you to look at your trust fund.”

Dick laughed, and fiddled with the remote. “Come to think of it, that movie was pretty freaky, too. I mean, the  _bull_.”

The debate over what movies to watch ended up being useless, because Dick curled against him to halfway through Footloose and was snoring softly not minutes later. Bruce rubbed smooth circles into his hair, absently. 

It was easy to imagine that dark head of hair weaving through the Manor’s halls, half his height but with twice the life. These days, Dick moved slow, easy, every move calculated, as deadly as a panther; as much as Dick had grown up, some part of him would always be his little Robin, who cackled like mad when he slid down the banister and spent a few hours trying to lick his elbow because Bruce had told him  _ninety percent of people can’t lick their elbows_. That night, at dinner, Bruce had told him  _one hundred percent of people try after hearing that,_  and Dick had thrown his napkin at him. 

 _I would saw off my right arm, if it meant seeing you that carefree again_ , Bruce thought, and after he was sure Dick was asleep, he bent his head and pressed a kiss to his son’s temple. 

He wormed the remote out of a split in the couch, and put on The Last Unicorn. 

“Horizon, rising up to me,” Bruce hummed, lowly, “the purple dawn.”

Dick shifted, lazily nudging him in the ribs. “I can hear you.”

“I know.”

“Sentimental old coot.”


	20. bruce & dick

Curious, how his birthday landed in the time he hated most. 

“Hey, Tim - watch it with - or, you could just drop them on the floor, that’s fine,” Dick said. His eldest twisted in his seat, watching the bustle of people spill into the dining room. 

“I didn’t  _mean_  to,” Tim whined, bending to pick up pieces of shattered plates.

“For heaven’s sake,” Alfred hissed, ducking back in the kitchen for the broom. 

Tim followed him, arms filled with ceramic shards. “I said it was an accident, Alfred, I swear!”

“We tried, Bruce,” Dick said, in a sort of defeated tone. 

Damian, who must’ve been under the impression that it was a formal occasion and was wearing a tiny tuxedo complete with a lopsided bow tie, slid easily into the seat beside Dick. “It’s not our fault Drake can’t walk like a normal person.”

“I heard that!”

“At least you’re not deaf,” Damian muttered, straightening his napkin. Dick flicked him on the ear, shaking his head slightly, and Damian at least had the grace to look slightly sheepish. 

Alfred set to bitterly sweeping up what remained of the plates, and Tim returned, this time carrying half the plates and walking much more carefully. 

“The bowls, now, Master Tim,” Alfred instructed.

“I’ll get them,” Damian said, snootily, sliding out of the chair and trotting into the kitchen. His shoes were untied. 

“No, I’ve got it,” Tim said.

“If any of you could do as you were told for ten minutes,” Alfred grumbled, following them.

His birthday was something he never looked forward to. It fell during winter, a time of year he couldn’t stand, and this year, the winter had been rougher than ever - several feet of snow laid on the ground. From the looks of the sky, there’d be a couple more, by the time this storm was done blowing. The cold was miserable. It made everything hurt. Usually, his birthday wasn’t even a good day - not a bad one, either, just another one. Alfred would let him get away with not celebrating. Dick, for some ungodly reason, had insisted upon it, this year. 

“Here you are, Father,” Damian said, proudly offering Bruce a bowl. Bruce took it, with what must’ve been a strained smile. 

“Is Miss Gordon on the way?” Alfred asked.

Dick swallowed. “Uh, she’s not coming.” Alfred  _hmphed_  in disapproval.

He could imagine how that had gone; Dick, insisting  _you should come, it’ll be fun_ , Barbara’s terse  _sure_ , the text she’d probably sent him ten minutes ago saying something came up! Maybe next time. He envied her. They all had better things to be doing, than celebrating an arbitrary date - he could die tonight, he could die tomorrow. All of this was just a waste.

“Are we going to sing?” Dick asked, as Alfred slid the cake on the table.

“I’ll sing,” Tim said.

Damian snorted. “No one wants to hear that.”

“Oh, sure they do. Hap-py birth-day to you, hap-py birth-day to you - “

“You lo-ok like a mon-key, and you smell like one too,” Dick finished, with a grin. 

Damian was clutching at his ears. “Not you, too, Grayson.”

Dick laughed. “Bruce loves my singing, it’s my birthday present to him.”

“I do?”

Dick winked at him. “Just go with it.”

“Then I do,” Bruce said, dryly. “Damian, blow out the candles for me.”

Alfred slid a slice of chocolate cake on his plate while Damian watched with unashamedly jealous eyes. With an amused smile, Bruce pushed his plate to Damian, who enthusiastically tore into the cake. 

Even the cake didn’t seem to slow down his boys’ merry moods - they continued bickering over nonsense, even with their mouths full. Alfred, who primly nibbled at his own slice, gave up on trying to remind everyone of their manners. 

In a past life, he must have done something truly selfless, something beyond kind, to deserve these boys of his - a past life, it had to be, because he couldn’t think of anything worthy of such love in this one. 

He took the plates to the kitchen when Tim and Damian started arguing about who got to lick the icing off the candles - as mature as Tim was capable of being, it seemed to melt away whenever Damian was within hearing distance. Dick and Alfred sent each other twin looks of sufferance from across the table. 

Bruce scraped off a plate, ran it beneath the water. He scrubbed them until they gleamed. Eventually, Dick came to lean against the counter beside.

“I’m sorry,” he said, rubbing at his neck. “I know you don’t like your birthday, I just wanted… something special, I guess. I tried. I’m sorry I dragged you into it. I know you hated it.”

“I didn’t,” Bruce said. It wasn’t a lie. He didn’t hate the celebration, just the man they were celebrating. 

“I think Damian liked your cake, though, I think he ate about half of it,” Dick said. “He might be in a food coma. Tim’s going nuts.”

He could see it, somehow, in his mind’s eye - Damian passed out on the couch while Tim gleefully ruined his GTA file. Later, Damian would be raising Cain, but, for now, the kitchen was dark and quiet. 

Bruce wiped off his hands. “Thank you, Dick. Really.”

Dick chuckled, awkwardly. “I mean, I guess it could’ve been worse? I could’ve tried inviting Clark, and everyone. That would’ve been - uh. Are you hugging me?”

 _Sometimes I feel raising you was the only good thing I’ve ever done in my life_ , Bruce had meant to say. Somehow, the message had atrophied in his brain, and he’d ended up pulling Dick close to his chest, instead.

Dick huffed, patting Bruce on the back. “Love you, too, big guy. I do - ah - need those lungs, though.”

 _I don’t care_ , Bruce thought.


	21. bruce & dick

“You can come out now.”

With a sigh, Dick dropped into the alleyway, crashing into a puddle. The rain - barely a drizzle - had been coming down for hours now, and the air outside was cold and thick and wet. Bruce was crouched on the ground, turning a bullet casing over with a pair of tweezers. “Where’d I screw up?”

“Five blocks ago. Knocked the fire escape.”

“Barely,” Dick said. “You’re nuts, Bruce.”

“Hnh.”

There was a florescent pink sign across the street, bathing them in neon light - once, it might have read  _Hello There_. These days, it read  _Hell Here_. It illuminated the cowl, giving it harsher, more angular shadows. “I’ve got something for you to look at.”

Bruce stood, dropping the bullet into a plastic baggie. “The Titans collected evidence from that factory in China, right,” Dick continued, kicking errantly at a rock. “I’ve been staring at it all for a week now, and I can’t make any connections. I thought I might just need a new set of eyes.”

“I didn’t know you were in China.”

“Yeah, well, there’s a lot you don’t know,” Dick said. His voice was bitter, like the smell of the streets - oil and stale piss. 

Bruce turned to him. Dick got the vague impression he was raising a brow beneath the cowl, but it was impossible to tell. 

“It’s creepy when you do that,” Dick said, pleasantly. 

“So I’ve heard.”

Batman’s shadow fell long and hard against the concrete - there might be a day, somewhere in the distant future, where just the silhouette didn’t send a trickle of adrenaline running down his spine. Maybe. Possibly. 

“Sorry,” Dick said, rubbing at his neck. “You can stop giving me that look, alright? I’m irritable, I know. I’m tired.”

“You’re not,” Bruce rumbled, baritone cutting easily over Dick’s. It was that annoying thing, about Bruce - when he spoke, everything else went silent, as if in anticipation. “You rub your face, when you’re that tired. You haven’t done it once.”

Dick scrubbed his face with his hands. “There, that better? That fit into your box of ‘Things Dick Does’?”

“Fix your hair, you look like a porcupine.”

He’d forgotten how infuriating Bruce could be, when the man felt like it. Dick fluffed his hair, messing it up purposefully. “There, better. Can we just get back to the Cave, already?”

Bruce was still staring at him, and the cut of his jaw could’ve been either ‘trying to hold back a laugh’ or ‘rage-induced aneurysm’, Dick couldn’t tell. 

“If you don’t want to be here, don’t be,” Bruce growled, turning away. The cape swept over a discarded beer can.

Dick couldn’t keep an bitter laugh out of his throat. The rain seemed colder. “Someone’s short with you for ten seconds, and you get all high and mighty?”

“No,” Bruce said, sharply, “you’ve just got a problem with me. Come back when you’re over it.”

The decision-making part of Dick’s brain decided then would be a good time to take off on vacation. “I thought you wanted to see me again.”

 Bruce stopped, stood so still it was hard not to mistake him for a statue. “Why are you upset.”

 _Because you’ve got a kid running around in my costume_ , Dick thought.  _Because it feels like you replaced me, and you’re happy with him. Because I already know who built that factory in China, but I wanted to see you._

“I said I’m tired,” Dick muttered. “You know what, nevermind. I’m good.”

“Dick,” Bruce said, voice pleading. “Things… don’t have to be this way.”

“You know damn well why things are the way they are,” Dick snarled, thinking of the kid with his mantle, his costume, in his house, with - well.

Dick vaulted away, onto the roof of the building looming beside him. The rain was coming down harder, now. It felt like it wouldn’t ever stop raining, these days.


	22. bruce & jason

Bruce would never get used to the taste of fear - the way it rushed up the throat, the way it paralyzed, the way it brought everything closer. He preferred shock. Shock made everything feel as if he were watching his life through six inches of glass and hundreds of gallons of water, as if he could walk away, and never have to see such horror again. Fear made it real. Fear made it inescapable, because fear was all-consuming.

“Stay with me,” Bruce snapped. “Stay awake, Jason.”

“Ready for -  _hrk_ \- round two,” Jason muttered, blood staining his lips, dribbling out of the corner of his mouth.

“Not today,” Bruce said. Jason’s blood was slick over his hands, and it might have been poetic. Parents, he’d learned, left fingerprints on their children, because there was no bond closer - his fingerprint on Jason was more of a crack. A shatter. A bleed. Jason’s blood would always be on his hands, and Bruce would never wash it out. 

Weakly, Jason pulled the catch on his helmet, wiggled it off. “Why’s it gotta be you.”

 _For the same reason you’re here bleeding,_  Bruce thought.  _For the same reason I pulled you out of the wreckage years ago, for the same reason I buried you. Because God is a sadist._

“Keep talking,” Bruce rumbled. 

“The guy who shot me,” Jason breathed, “he’s getting - he’s getting… away.”

“Yes.”

“If you - you shot him, he wouldn’t be.”

“Yes.”

Jason shook his head. “You’ll never see, will you. You’ll never see I’m right. You’re not… you’re not what Gotham needs. You’re what’s - what’s killing her.”

“Can we postpone the philosophy debate,” Bruce said, voice low and hard. 

“Nah,” Jason said, errantly waving a hand. “We gotta wait for the pick-up, right? Might as well… pass the time, n’all. What better time to talk about killing, then when someone’s bein’ killed.”

“Stop,” Bruce said. “You’re not dying, Jason, not now.”

Jason’s laugh was more of wheeze, a bitter release of air. “I… envy that. ‘Bout you. That - that blindness. That ignorance. Wish I could be that naive.”

Bruce gritted his teeth, and Jason continued. “S’what makes you good with kids, but bad with adults. You think like kids do. Can’t handle growing up.”

“If I wanted an armchair psych eval, I would’ve called Leslie,” Bruce hissed. 

Jason didn’t respond - Bruce’s heart skipped a beat, and he smacked a hand down beside Jason’s head. 

“Wake up!” Bruce snarled. “Dammit, Jay - stay with me, or so help me I’ll come after you in the afterlife.”

“You don’t believe in God,” Jason rasped.

Bruce faltered. “I pray. Sometimes.”

“… why?”

“It keeps me focused.”


	23. bruce & clark

The Batmobile shuddered to a stop. Bruce swung open the door, growled, “Get the fuck out of my cave,” and pushed past Clark.

“Hello, sunshine,” Clark muttered. “Bruce, wait up.”

Bruce gritted his teeth. “For someone with super-powered hearing, you are deaf. I said get out. That means I don’t want you here.”

“Yeah, I was sort of getting that,” Clark said, crossing his arms. “It’s just too bad I don’t care. What happened to you?”

Bruce spent a full minute counting down from thirty-five, trying to force the plume of fury behind his heart down. It was longer before he could speak without losing his temper entirely. “Firefly.”

Clark raised a brow - Bruce thought he might be able to read disappointment off that brow, if he looked hard enough.  _Burned by Firefly. Shameful_ , he was thinking. “Are you going to treat it?”

Bruce dropped onto the stool, and pulled the dirt samples out of his belt. “When I get the chance. Are you going to get a clue?”

“When I get around to it.”

Bruce tugged off his cowl, tossing it on the table. “You want a fight, don’t you. What is it? Something happen with Lois? Trouble in paradise? Take a swing, if that’s what you want.”

Clark rubbed his eyes. “No, that’s not - look. I came here about the Thanagar report, that’s it. You want to go through this whole process where you kill yourself but slowly for the seven hundredth time, go for it. Talk to me when you feel like being human again.”

Bruce was speaking before he could stop himself. “And how would  _you_  know what that looks like?”

Clark closed his eyes, expression tight. His fists were white-knuckled at his side. There was something thrilling, about baiting the world’s most powerful man - in half a second, Clark could let his rage take form, and bury Bruce under a couple tons of concrete and rock and steel. He could pull Bruce’s head from his shoulders as easily as cracking open a can of soda. There was something thrilling, about knowing Clark could, about daring Clark to  _do it. Take a swing. Take my jaw off._

There was something mesmerizing in watching Clark back down every single time. “Fuck you, Bruce. Sincerely, from the bottom of my heart,  _fuck_ you.”

The fury in him fizzled out - because when Clark backed down from a fight solely because he would win, it made every ugly, awful human duck their head in shame, and of them, Bruce was the ugliest. “Clark, wait.”

Clark whipped around, his face carved in lines of rage. “Shut up. Just, shut up. Every time I think - every time I think that maybe we’re past this, you go and pull something like this. For some ungodly reason, you think everyone in the world needs to hate you, and I will never, for the life of me, figure out why. Batman has to be a barely-human machine, Bruce Wayne has to be a lush. You even have some - some  _unfathomable_  idea that you have to push your own damn family away. And you know the worst part?”

Clark hands fell back to his sides. “The worst part is, you’re really, really good at it. Because I fucking  _hate_  you right now.”

Bruce forced himself to look Clark directly in the eyes. “You’re right. People should hate me. Turn off the lights when you leave, if you don’t mind.”

Bruce stood up, letting the stool clatter to the floor. 

“Don’t you  _dare_  shut me out,” Clark said. “Not now.”

Bruce stopped, worked his jaw. “What the hell do you want me to say? That you’re right? I already did that, just about five seconds ago. You want to hear it again? You’re right, Clark. You’re exactly right. You have put your finger directly on what it is that I do, you get a gold star.”

“Condescending, cute,” Clark said, bitterly. “Why?”

“What.”

“Why? You don’t do anything without reason. Why? What’s your big plan, after you’ve made everybody who even tried to care about you want to tear your guts out? Why do this?”

 _Because I hate myself_ , Bruce thought. “Because it’s what I do,” Bruce said, disappearing into the stairwell. 


	24. bruce & dick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick note: this marks the beginning of some of these fics coming from things I've written and shared with friends as gifts, rather than actual prompts that you could find on my blog. Which means some of these will be incredibly specific emotions because they're crafted for specific people I know well.

It wasn’t so often that Nightwing joined Batman on a patrol, these days; Bludhaven was made from its own rotting flesh, and there was only so much time Dick had to expend on Gotham’s root-deep blackness. There were nights, however, that Bruce would call on him. 

 

The truth of the matter was that Bruce simply didn’t need him. There was almost nothing Bruce couldn’t stubborn his way through, and willpower, resistance to pain, pertinacity, those were all things Bruce held in extreme excess. Bruce was a person of excess. In what he was good at, he was the standard by which perfection defined itself; but in what he was bad at, he was so painfully unskilled that Dick sometimes wanted to hit him upside the head. Batman was perfection. Batman was the grand ideal. Batman didn’t need Nightwing to tag along on a banal patrol over the cape, and he didn’t need to have Nightwing stake out one of Carmine’s casinos. He just wanted Dick there, and he just wanted Dick to get bored and ramble endlessly so he could listen and grunt in the right places.

 

“... and that’s about when I punched him in the face,” Dick finished. He still spoke with his hands, even when Bruce was over the comm, tucked away on a building on the other side of the casino. “Really, his face. It was incredible. He went cross-eyed and stiff as a board, like one of those cartoons? Remember those? I used to watch Looney Toons religiously.”

 

_ “Don’t you still.” _

 

Dick rubbed at his neck. “Maybe. So what. I can enjoy things. But, yeah, you know how when you hit someone in the face in a cartoon, they make that face? That’s the face. That is the exact face this guy made when I hit him. It was incredible.”

 

“Hnh.”   
  


“Don’t say that, you just weren’t there. It’s got more impact if you can visualize it. Oh, and did I tell you about the duck? Seriously, I have to tell you about the duck. Bludhaven’s about the weirdest place on Earth.”

 

“You didn’t.”   
  


Dick sucked in a breath. “Hold on to your utility belt for this one, because I swear it, right now, I am not messing with you. I am not. So about a month ago, I’m on a routine patrol, right? Nothing big, I’m just on the South end, so I’m prepared for a couple fights. Scare a few mooks off,  _ pow pow, _ y’know, what we do. So I’m there, and patrolling, and there’s this guy. Real short. Shorter than me, so next to you he would’ve been a real hobbit. And he’s got this duck.”

 

“Hmm.”

 

“Yeah, right? He’s smack in the middle of this city with a duck, and it’s kind of a big duck. I don’t know anything about ducks, though, but it’s a lot bigger than I thought a duck would be. And he’s carrying this duck through the city, and - what’s up?”

 

_ “I have company. Keep talking.” _

 

“Need me to join you?”

 

_ “Just keep talking.”  _

 

Dick leaned back, smothering the instinctive need to dive into the city and rush to Batman’s side. It felt like where he belonged, even after all these years. “Alright. So, guy’s carrying his duck, and this duck is not happy about it. This duck is pissed as hell. Actually, the duck kind of reminded me of you. In the mornings you look like your last name is actually Banner and you’re gonna Hulk out on me, but you’ve got bat-bedhead, so you’re pissed off and fluffy and - y’know what I’m getting at.”

 

_ “I think I understand. I’m a duck?” _

 

“Yeah, of course. You’ll get it in a minute, because the duck bites me.”

 

_ “I have never bitten you.” _

 

“Oh, you are a liar,” Dick said. “You are a straight-up liar, and I have the Alfred to prove it. Remember when I was in seventh grade and I got that score on the test, and I woke you up when I got home to show you? And after you spent an hour relearning how to be alive, I said something like, ‘man, I stuffed so much math in my brain, I don’t think I remember how to fight,’ and then you jumped me. And we broke a vase, and I got you into a superior hold - I was damn proud of myself right then, I’ll have you know - and then you bit me. You bit me!”

 

_ “... hmph.” _

 

“Exactly! So you remember now! Oh, ouch, that sounded nasty. I don’t think that guy’s gonna be having much fun when he wakes up. I’m assuming that was his nose.”

 

_ “Used to be.” _

 

“Not bad,” Dick said. He grinned. “For an old timer like you.”

 

_ “Not that old.” _

 

“Sure, sure, keep telling yourself that. Damn, I know that hit was you. Get back up. You’ve gotta sock ‘em one for me.”

_ “Will do.” _

 

“Thanks. Make it real hard, too, I want to leave a good impression. You wanted to head back around three, right? Short patrol? Isn’t that place by GCU with the all-nighter cookies still open? It’s on the way.”

 

_ “No, it isn’t.” _

 

“So what,” Dick said. “I don’t get any of the action, I don’t get any cookies. You’re a real gloryhound. Oh, wait, did I tell you about the duck?”

 

_ “No.” _

 

Bruce didn’t sound injured, but he did sound tired, and far too tired for the aftermath of just a simple skirmish. It didn’t sound like merely a physical breed of exhaustion, either. It sounded like he was weary to his very bones. 

 

“I think I’ll stay tomorrow, too,” Dick said. “Week’s been rough. Fell into a garbage truck, and I think I picked up the plague.”

 

_ “I’ll tell Alfred.” _

 

“There’s a Titans case I want to pick your brain on, too. Slade’s back at it again. Meet you at the car?”

 

_ “Hmph.” _

 

The line disconnected, and that was his answer. Dick stood, and stretched, and swung across a few buildings in tall, grand arcs. Bruce had always used to nag him for showing off and wasting energy, but Bruce liked to pick at things just to be difficult, the mean old goat. Dick hopped on the hood of the Batmobile, waiting, until Bruce finally slid out of the shadows. The grim turn of his mouth was harsh and cruel, and if Dick hadn’t just spent four hours talking to him, Dick would think he was angry. The day had come that a harsh frown was just what Bruce looked like. 

 

Dick jumped in the passenger seat. Bruce lowered himself in, always the more cautious. “Fun?” Dick asked.

 

Bruce huffed, and gunned the engine.

 

“I vote for cookies still,” Dick said. 

 

“Alfred,” Bruce grunted.

“Oh, sure, blame me,” Dick muttered. It was usually Bruce who snuck the lion’s share of Alfred’s cookies, because Bruce had something of sweet tooth. Dick didn’t dare comment on it, though. Bruce needed every scrap of goodness he could get. Whatever joy, however immaterial, however brief, however miniscule, was better than nothing at all.

 

The drive back to the Manor was short and filled with mostly Dick’s empty humming. Bruce snapped at him once to  _ pipe down, _ but it was a half-hearted stab born out of Bruce’s need to make sure everyone knew he didn’t agree with any of them, so Dick responded by humming louder. The corners of Bruce’s mouth softened, and, these days, that was as close to a smile as he got.

 

The car pulled to a stop, and Dick swung out. Alfred’s timing was perfect as ever; he stood sharply against the deep blues of the cave, holding a tray of cookies and batting experimentally at one of the wire contraptions on the work table. 

 

“Don’t touch that,” Bruce growled.

 

Alfred sent him a sharp look. Bruce stopped, made a movement as if he were going to pinch the bridge of his nose but realized he was still wearing the cowl, and then added, in the flattest voice possible, “Please. That one explodes.”

 

Alfred sniffed. “They all explode. Welcome home, Master Dick.”

 

“Good to be back,” Dick said, with a lopsided smile. “I think it might actually have been years since I had your cookies.”

 

“Utterly unfactual,” Alfred said, with a smile of his own. 

 

Dick peeled a cooked off the tray and bit into it. “Hey, Bruce,” he called. “It’s peanut butter chocolate chip.”

 

“I don’t  _ care.” _

 

“Of course you wouldn’t, I was just stating a fact,” Dick said, absently. “Al, I’ll take a shower, because I’m disgusting, and then you can have me all to yourself, yeah?”

 

“Of course, Master Dick,” Alfred said. After a brief moment’s hesitation, Alfred laid a hand on Dick’s arm and squeezed, gently. “Good to have you back, young sir.”   
  


Dick nodded. Alfred disappeared quickly up the staircase, because emotions offended his British sensibilities. 

 

Bruce had swivelled in his chair, and was eyeing Dick with the blank, unfeeling lenses of his cowl. “He missed you.”   
  


“I didn’t visit as much as I should have,” Dick said, tactically avoiding the reason why.

 

Something told him that Bruce picked up on the connection anyway, because something in Bruce slumped as if a string holding him up had been cut. There was a poignance to that one, simple motion; it was as if Bruce for a moment had forgotten he had to carry some great weight, and was then reminded and required to heft it again, all while Dick watched.

 

And Dick watched. He sat in silence and stared, even after Bruce turned back to his mission report. Somehow, in the last four years, it had become a fact of life that Bruce would die wearing the cowl; the way Bruce fought, in those last handful of years, snuffed out any hope of Bruce retiring to a peaceful life eventually. Bruce came home with more injuries, and more severe injuries, every week. He didn’t just tempt death. He danced with death in the pale moonlight. 

 

Dick hated it. Dick hated it more than he’d ever hated anything in his life.

 

Dick slid on the workbench, munching thoughtfully on his cookie. “I figure you saw someone tonight. You came back angry. You saw someone you thought had reformed. Who was it?”

 

“Blake,” Bruce said. 

 

“That’s sad. He’s got a family.”   
  


“It’s  _ disappointing,” _ Bruce snarled. 

 

Dick sighed. “You can’t fix them all. Most of who you scare straight stay straight.”

 

“That’s not good enough,” Bruce said. His voice was harsh and loud, and stirred the bats.

 

Dick spoke without thinking. “So it’s not enough to blame yourself for things that happen around you, you have to blame yourself for things other people do? Jesus Christ, Bruce.”

 

Bruce turned to look at him. “Dick,” he said, warningly.

 

“You know, this - this I can’t fucking stand,” Dick snapped. “I can’t stand it. You think I don’t know that you let those goons tonight break a rib or two because that was your punishment? That you failed Blake, so, oh, well, guess it’s time to get your ass kicked? I hate to break it to you, but some of us on this planet want you to survive, even if you don’t.”

 

Bruce turned his chair, hands folded. It was a pose that made Dick want to punch him. “You’re saying I’m reckless.”

Dick shook his head. “No, no. You’re not reckless. You’re manipulative. You know how to trick people into hurting you, and you do it because you’re damn certain you deserve it. The only thing I hate about you is how much you hate you.”

 

Silence fell harshly. The monitor whirred, and a few of the bats shrieked.

 

Dick peeled off his mask, tossing it on the table. He scrubbed at his eyes. “Jesus, Bruce, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to go off like that. This was supposed to be a good night.”

 

Bruce was silent and still as stone.

 

Dick hauled himself up. “Listen, I’ll apologize to Alfred later. I’ll just go. Whatever counter you’re coming up with in your weird brain, I really don’t want to hear it.”

 

“Wait,” Bruce ordered.

 

Dick’s knees locked of their own accord; a Robin’s instinct. 

 

“I’m… grateful,” Bruce said, slowly. He was standing now, stepping down the stairs. The jab about broken ribs was more accurate than Dick had thought. “That you came tonight. Every night you come with me, I’m grateful. Sometimes, I don’t… I think…”

 

Bruce snorted like a bull and pulled off his cowl. Beneath it, his face was tired and worn, but his eyes were intent. “It would be easy for me to… decide not to get up. It would be maybe the easiest thing in the world to not come back. But if you’re there, it’s no longer an option. You… it  _ was _ a good night, Dick.”

 

The  _ you were there _ went unsaid, but Dick heard it anyway, and his eyes burned.

 

“Bruce,” he said, softly. “Bruce.”

 

Dick was out of words to say  _ I haven’t heard you laugh in years now, and if I had to march to the edge of the universe to make you laugh, I’d do it every day for the rest of my life _ . It was possible that there weren’t words for such a thing, and it could only be communicated through a special blend of pertinacity, resistance to pain, and willpower; all of which Dick held in extreme excess. 

 

“Promise me one thing,” Dick said. He was close enough to grab Bruce by the shoulder, and he did. “One thing.”

 

“Anything.”   
  


“You live. I don’t care how you make it happen, you  _ live. _ You live until you’re old enough to put down that cowl, and you live until you’re old enough to wag your cane and yell at everyone on your lawn, alright?”

 

Bruce face was simultaneously painfully blank and infinitely sad. He pulled Dick closer to him, and engulfed Dick in a hug; his hand came up and cradled Dick’s dark hair, thumbing circles into it. But he made no promise.


	25. bruce & dick

When Dick was a kid, there wasn’t anything Batman and Robin couldn’t do. 

 

Gotham City had shown like a diamond in the rough, back then. Gotham City had been rivers of wind and riverbeds of concrete, gleaming columns of cars pumped through the city’s arteries, through its capillaries, and then the city expanded and they came rushing back into the center heat. Batman and Robin had been the heart of its heart, Gotham’s pulsing center; everyone knew when Batman and Robin took wing. Everyone knew who Batman and Robin were. The city was theirs come nightfall. It was the two of them against the world, and they were winning.

 

“Hold on!”   
  


Everything that flies has to fall.

 

_ “Dammit!” _

 

There was a thud by Dick’s ear; it was Batman’s gauntlet, brought down against the asphalt as if it had personally offended him. Everything that flies has to fall. If Batman’s fist goes up, it must come down. 

 

Dick worked his eyes open. He hadn’t been aware they weren’t open. He worked his jaw, and tried to say, “Batman,” tried to say something important, but he couldn’t quite grasp the ghost of that thought and his words turned into gnarled gibberish.

 

He tried again. “Where,” he forced out, and this time it was mostly successful. Bruce knew enough languages to speak Dick-ese.

 

“Cave,” Bruce snarled. “You fell out. Someone didn’t bother telling me about the knife wound in their side.”

 

“Hypocrite,” Dick said. Or, attempted to say. It sounded more like, “H’pp’n’crish.”

 

The world spun in a web of blacks and blues. The cool lenses of Batman’s cowl merged and swirled together like pale, flat moons. “L’gh’s… off.”

 

“Lights to thirty percent,” Bruce called. 

 

Dick wondered when he installed that. The Cave was constantly shifting, changing like the tectonic plates of the Earth. Bruce never could leave well enough alone.

 

Bruce guided Dick’s hand to the stab wound, and pressed it there. “Hold it.”

 

“B’ssy,” Dick muttered.

 

“Not now,” Bruce growled. “Hold it tight. On three.”

 

Bruce counted him off, and Dick grit his teeth. Bruce snaked arms beneath him and pushed upward with his thighs, cradling Dick in a bridal carry like Dick was twelve and had fallen asleep on the couch.

 

Dick buried a whine of pain into the Batsuit’s armor. Bruce held him fast until Dick breathed out, and the jerky motion of his knees told Dick that he was maybe quite a bit too big for this.

 

And then Dick was sprawled against the cot, and he must have blacked out briefly, because when he came to the stitches were rolled into his side neatly and sharply. Precision. Perfection. 

 

When Dick was a kid, the hardest thing about being Robin had been living up to Batman. There was good, there was great, and then there was whatever Bruce was; the obsessive, intense perfectionism, the total dedication to the cause, the heart beneath it that ached to give to anyone who needed it. As a kid, his greatest fear was that he’d never live up to it. That was back when the days were gold and the nights were long and sweet.

 

There was someone sitting by his bed. “Good morning.”

 

“Hi,” Dick said, softly. “Sorry about the floor.”

 

“It’ll wash out.”

 

“What are you… working on?” Dick rasped.

 

“Puzzle.”

 

“Odd puzzle.”

 

“It’s an Appelaxian lock,” Bruce said. “Whatever’s inside it, Mongul is looking for it.”

 

Dick thought of Mongul, the towering beast of acid yellow skin and a slick purple suit. He compared it to Bruce, who sat patiently, glasses perched on the edge of his nose, staring down through them. He turned the Appelaxian lock over with calloused, worn hands. He had the sleeves of his turtleneck pulled precisely down, the collar exactly tucked. 

 

Bruce looked over, raising a thick brow. “Why are you laughing.”

 

“No reason,” Dick said.

 

“You’re going to hurt yourself.”   
  


“Worth it.”

 

Bruce shook his head, expression grave. “No.”

 

Dick flopped back against the bed, relishing the heat of the pain crawling up his side. The pain distracted him. Bruce had his brows drawn together, and both ends of his mouth pulled down in a steel scowl, and that meant Bruce was turning over a lecture in his weird brain.

 

“This is the third time you’ve been injured this month,” Bruce said.

 

“Oh, you do care,” Dick snapped. “Listen. I’m tired. Leave me alone, maybe?”

 

“No.”

 

“Why am I not surprised,” Dick said. “You’ve never listened to me in your life.”

 

“That is untrue,” Bruce said, pulling off his glasses and folding them primly in his lap. “And you know it. You’ve been punishing yourself.”

 

“I get it from my dad,” Dick said.

 

It was a well-crafted barb. It caught Bruce off-guard enough to stop him, leave him frowning alternately between the puzzle and Dick himself.

 

“I can’t force you to tell me anything,” Bruce said. 

 

Dick shrugged. “So an old dog can learn new tricks, go figure.”

 

Bruce offered him a tight smile. Or, rather, as close to a smile as Bruce ever got, these days - just that odd quirk of a mouth downward. What flies must also fall. “What you have to understand, Dick, is that I won’t let you punish yourself like this. It’s unacceptable.”

 

“What I have to understand,” Dick mouthed, tasting the words. “What I think you have to understand is that you’re a giant fucking hypocrite.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“You’re infuriating,” Dick said. “You sanctimonious bastard. You tell me what I ‘have to understand’? Let me tell you what I have to understand. Three people died on my watch. That’s three whole lives that I just ended. You know, one of them, Eddie, he had a full scholarship next year - what the hell do you know about that? What the hell would you know about any of that? He was just a kid, I  _ carried _ his  _ body - “ _

 

Dick stopped abruptly. He stared at Bruce for a full minute, and then dropped his head into his hands. “Look at me. They should start calling me Captain Foot-in-Mouth.”

 

“I’m sure I’ve said worse.”

 

Beneath the relative safety of his hands, Dick could feel his tenuous grasp on his emotions start to unravel. “Do you ever,” he mumbled, “do you ever miss… back then. When I was a kid, I mean. God, everything was so much easier then. I just want to go  _ back.” _

 

Bruce was silent. 

 

Dick looked up at him. “Don’t you ever miss it?” he asked, and his voice was soft and quiet and deeply broken.

 

Bruce turned a dial on the puzzle. “Every damn day.”

 

“When did everything get so messed up?” Dick asked. A part of him felt deep shame for even asking; he felt like a child running home with all his problems. 

 

“Dick,” Bruce said, softly.  _ “Dick. _ It was always this messed up. There was no golden era. The truth is that the world never deserved you.”

 

Dick stared at his hands. “It was so good, back then.”

 

“You were a boy.”

 

Dick shook his head. “No. I was Robin. I was more than that.”

 

Bruce flicked his eyes over Dick’s face curiously. “What did Robin mean to you?”

 

“Happiness,” Dick said, without missing a beat.

 

Bruce stared.

 

“What?”

 

“That’s the same answer I would’ve given.”

 

The conversation lulled after that. There were occasional clicks from the puzzle and grunts from Bruce, and Dick tried to sleep but found he couldn’t. He kept longing for the heart of Gotham’s heart.

 

“I like to think of it as a puzzle,” Bruce said, suddenly. He leaned over, and offered Dick the sphere. “Puzzles are simple.”

 

Bruce switched a dial, another dial, a third. “The thing about the world is that it’s - “  _ click, _ “ - just a little - “  _ click,  _ “ - lost. All you have to do is - “  _ click,  _ “find it.”

 

The sphere rolled open. At the center, there were a handful of seeds. “Curiouser and curiouser,” Bruce muttered, pulling out his comm. 

 

“Hey, make Clark come here,” Dick whined. “I miss him.”

 

Bruce nodded, tersely. “After that, you sleep. I don’t care if every leader on the planet sets every person on this planet on fire. I want you to keep yourself alive, and breathing, you understand me?”

 

“Now you’re back to being an asshole again. Can you show me another puzzle? I liked Puzzle Bruce better.”

 

“Hnh.”

 


	26. alfred & bruce

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, special note: this one is specific to my Secret Universe of fics, and is basically trashy extrapolation on one specific detail. Because I am me. I liked that detail.

“Gloves?” Alfred asked. “Are we cold, Master Bruce?”

 

Bruce hopped into his chair, peering carefully into the bowl in front of him. The dining room, with all its grandeur and memories, was too much for just the pair of them; it stayed quiet and still and Bruce would take his meals at the island in the kitchen.

 

“Soup,” Alfred explained, towelling off his hands. “My apologies for the monotony, sir.”

 

For the last month, their dinners had consisted of casseroles that Tanya Fox brought over and tucked into the freezer, sandwiches, and simple soup recipes. Tonight it was tomato soup, which was easier now, after he knew precisely how much onion was too much.

 

“Cold,” Bruce said, quietly, as he wrestled his fingers around the spoon. After a few stubborn tries, he managed to wedge it between his index and middle finger, and took a cautious sip. He was eating at least that much, which was an improvement; while Bruce focused his attention on his balancing act, Alfred scanned over him nervously. The lad’s hair was too long, and he was too pale by a shade and getting thinner all the time. If Martha and Thomas could see their boy now, they’d tear him from Alfred with teeth bared.

 

“Would you, perhaps, like some thinner gloves, sir?” Alfred asked. “Snow gloves at this juncture are no doubt cumbersome.”

 

Bruce blinked owlish eyes at him, and thoughtfully sipped his soup.

 

Alfred nodded. “I’ll fetch those right away, sir.”

 

And that was that; Bruce started wearing soft, wooly gloves around the house, along with thicker sweaters and socks. Alfred offered him snacks more often, and when Bruce refused them, Alfred laid awake at night and wondered what on God’s green Earth had made Thomas and Martha write him in as Bruce’s godfather. There was no chance to indulge these wonderings during the day, of course, because Bruce never left his side; Bruce had become his shadow, silent and always reaching tiny hands forward for something to help with. He even followed Alfred outside when Alfred took a moment to smoke.

 

Bruce was still such a sweet, caring boy beneath the frost that had grown up around him like weeds, Alfred knew; but he no longer ran out to the willow tree, and he no longer sat among the flowers, and he no longer would brush up against Alfred in exactly the fashion that would earn him a pat on the head. He did things, certainly. He spoke, sometimes. But there was a deadness to it. There was a stillness, a silence, a frigid sort of air that made Alfred’s heart twist and want to kneel down and grab Bruce by the shoulders and shake him just to see a little life come back into him. 

 

Alfred did not shake him, and Bruce drifted along with his gloves and sweaters and socks and retreated, solemnly, from the world he had so loved. 

-

 

“The rag, if you will, Master Bruce.”

 

A moment passed, and the dust rag was not thrust forward by a determined hand. “Master Bruce?”

 

“Sorry,” came a small, muffled voice, and then the rag was folded and set on the table. 

 

Alfred backed out of the china cabinet, a knot in his back popping as he did so. They’d taken all of the china out in order to clear the shelves themselves of dust, and now Bruce was sat in the middle of a sparkling array of dinnerware, gaze dim. It was unusual for Bruce to miss a cue; or to sit down at all, really. Color had bloomed high on Bruce’s cheeks, and his eyes were half-lidded, exhausted.

 

Alfred knelt down. “Come here, my boy.”

 

“M’okay,” Bruce mumbled.

 

Alfred beckoned him forward again, and grumpily, Bruce scooted himself forward with his legs. Alfred cupped his head and pressed his lips to Bruce’s forehead, and after a moment, leaned back with a hiss. “Blast it all. You have a fever, sir.”   
  


Bruce seemed to take this as allowance to curl forward and close his eyes, as if now that the culprit had been found, he was free to sleep there on the spot. Alfred scooped him up and stepped carefully over the china, and took the stairs two at a time, Bruce’s head lolling against Alfred’s breastbone. 

 

Alfred laid Bruce down on his bed, murmuring, “There, that’s it,” when the boy whined. “Lay there. I’ll return shortly. If your fever hasn’t broken by tomorrow, I’ll have to call the doctor, Master Bruce.”

 

“No,” Bruce said, simply, as if that singular command would change Alfred’s mind.

 

“Yes,” Alfred said. At this, Bruce scowled, and rolled over until his face was pressed into the mattress. “Don’t take an attitude with me, dear boy.”

 

“I don’t like the doctor,” Bruce grumbled. 

 

“You don’t even know the doctor.”

 

“I don’t like any of them,” Bruce said, and he turned his head so the corner of one glazed eye could peer at Alfred. “You’re a doctor.”

 

“Not that kind of doctor, Master Bruce.”

 

“Can’t you do everything.”   
  


“No, I cannot.”

 

“Now you’re just lying,” Bruce muttered, and his face was split by a yawn. 

 

Alfred left and gathered a few things - the threat to call the doctor had mostly been to keep Bruce rooted to the bed, rather than up and about. It was cheap bribery, using Bruce’s dislike of social interaction against him, but Bruce was stubborn would likely leave him little choice. Alfred hoped Bruce would grow out of that particular trait.

 

Bruce was sleeping soundly by the time Alfred returned, and carefully Alfred rolled him so he could see the boy’s face. Alfred spread a cool rag over the boy’s forehead, and resolved to wake Bruce up in an hour or two to give him the water.

 

Bruce didn’t let him wait. An hour in, he arched off of the bed with an ear-splitting cry, scrabbling at the sheets.

 

Alfred dropped the book in his hands, startled. “Bruce? Master Bruce!”

 

Alfred hovered over him; Bruce was awake now, and had his gloved hands pressed hard to his face, long, shuddering sobs being pulled from him in gasps. “I’m here,” Alfred said. Bruce stilled, and looked at Alfred with terror-filled eyes, and then he was clutching at Alfred’s middle and gasping and crying nonsense language.

 

Alfred maneuvered onto the bed, hand curled over Bruce’s hair, murmuring quietly and rocking Bruce back and forth. 

  
“I’m sorry,” Bruce breathed. “I’m sorry, Alfred, I’m sorry, I’m sorry -”

 

“It’s not your fault, my boy,” Alfred said. “It’s not. This is not your fault.”

 

“It is!” Bruce shrieked. “It is! You have to - you have to -”

 

Bruce cut himself off, and wriggled off one of his gloves, hissing in pain as he did so. It didn’t take Alfred long to see why; the fabric of the glove has stuck to fresh, oily, purpling burns, and Alfred’s stomach twisted in horror when he realized that the fresh burns were layered over gnarled, twisted old scars.

With a shaking hand, Alfred rolled down Bruce’s sleeve to find more, scattered across the pale skin, like knots in a white tree, like macabre little red and purple and pink flowers blooming in the snow. 

 

“Good Lord,” Alfred whispered. His lighters. Christ, his lighters - they had all been going  _ missing -  _

 

“The - the blood. It was on my hands. There was a big… puddle of it, I was just sitting in it, I had to get it off and it wouldn’t come off,” Bruce said, in a rush. “But it won’t. It’s my fault. It  _ is.” _

 

“Let me see your other hand,” Alfred said, faintly. He felt as if his blood had all abandoned him, leaving him dizzy and weak, about to crumble like a house of cards. 

 

Alfred gently tugged off the other glove, and found that this hand was just as pocked with scars and fresh burns as the other. “Christ,” Alfred said. “Master Bruce… these are infected. Oh, God. Have you been doing this since… ?”   
  


Bruce seemed to understand then that Alfred found the burns to be a disagreeable thing, because his face closed off and his eyes fell. “Had to,” he mumbled.

 

Alfred pressed his eyes shut, swallowing back the unanticipated salt of tears.  _ Had to. Had to.  _

 

“I’m sorry,” Bruce said, again, miserably.

 

“No,” Alfred said, tilting Bruce’s head up, one thumb pressed over his chin. “I, Master Bruce, am the one who failed to see what you were going through properly. It is not your fault. It never has been. It never will be.”

 

Bruce tore his head away, eyes staring stubbornly downward. In the orange lamplight, Alfred could make out tears on his cheeks.

 

“Never,” Alfred repeated, pulling Bruce forward and tucking the boy’s dark head under his chin. “Never.”


	27. alfred & bruce

Alfred was unsurprised to find Bruce sitting on the countertop, legs swinging, humming something as he cradled a butterfly in his hands.

 

“Her name is Martha,” Bruce said, offhand. He didn’t take his gray, intent eyes off of the bright wings. “She’s very nice.”

 

“I bet she is,” Alfred said, dryly. “What is she… doing, exactly?”

 

Bruce flicked his eyes between Alfred’s steady gaze and the orange quarter in his palm. “Fruit. Butterflies don’t have teeth. She’s drinking the juice.”

 

“Ah, yes,” Alfred hummed. “Perhaps you’d like to vacate the countertop before I start preparing dinner? Unless you’d like me to work around you.”   
  


Bruce looked pensively at Martha, who was busy suckling juice from the orange slice. “Will she get stressed.”

 

“I’m not entirely sure butterflies are capable of stress, Master Bruce.”

 

“Martha is nice, and if butterflies can be nice, they can be stressed,” Bruce said, his tone clipped, his words final. 

 

Alfred had to bite down on a chuckle; Bruce’s little chin was jutting out, defiantly, like Alfred had insulted Martha, his mother, instead of Martha, his butterfly. 

 

“Very true, sir,” Alfred said. “But if you run little miss Martha outside, I’ll let you help with dinner.”

 

Bruce, after a moment of clear debate, cupped his hands around Martha and whispered consolations and apologies, before taking off into the hall as fast as he could. Trying to shorten the amount of time in transit, probably. Stress, and whatnot.

 

When Bruce rushed back in, five minutes later, Alfred had already put water on the stove, and was pulling a potato peeler out of the drawer. Bruce hefted himself back on the countertop, wiggling his hips to give himself an extra boost. Wordlessly, Alfred passed him a few potatoes and the peeler, and Bruce dutifully set to work.

 

Bruce always took his time with the peeler.  _ It had to be done right, _ he said, _ or it shouldn’t be done at all. _ The tender age of seven, and he was already a strangely perfectionistic child.

 

“How was your day, Master Bruce?” Alfred asked, as he cracked a few eggs in a bowl.

“There’s a lizard in the garden without a tail,” Bruce said. “Near the roses. He’s blue, but he doesn’t have a tail. How’d he lose his tail?”

 

“Lizards have a special adaptation,” Alfred said, eyeing a carrot, “that allows them to lose their tails when scared. A predator grabs them by the tail - then off it goes. The lizard escapes.”

 

“Oh. That’s good,” Bruce replied. “I thought it might have hurt him. That wouldn’t be good.”

 

“No, it wouldn’t, young sir,” Alfred said.

 

The kitchen was unusually quiet. Thomas and Martha Wayne were upstairs, but this evening, they were joined by Thomas’s brother Phillip. It was all the things Bruce disliked in this world; staying still, people, and Uncle Phillip. 

 

Bruce finished the potatoes quickly enough, each one peeled within an inch of its life. He busied himself with bagging up all of the skins, and then trotting out to the garden to dump them in the soil. He took longer than necessary, which was how Alfred figured the boy was searching for the aforementioned lizard.

 

Eventually, Bruce shuffled back in - dejected, which meant he hadn’t found the lizard - and covered in dirt. Bruce knew by now that he was required to show up to dinners looking immaculate. Cheeky.

 

“Master Bruce, you  _ will _ have to eat with Mister Phillip at some point,” Alfred said. “He’ll be in for a couple of days.”

 

Bruce pouted. It was not, altogether, too different from his resting expression. 

 

Alfred raised a brow. 

 

“One night,” Bruce said, staring up at Alfred with impossibly big eyes. “Please, Alfred?”

 

“I don’t understand what you find so detestable about Mister Phillip,” Alfred said, resting a lid on the pot. “He’s your uncle.”

 

“He’s loud and he smells bad.”

 

“Your father is loud,” Alfred said, wiping off his hands with a cloth. “And you smell bad, when you refuse to take a bath like a sensible child.”

 

“It’s  _ cold _ ,” Bruce whined. 

 

“And some things are worth enduring,” Alfred said. 

 

Bruce made a frustrated noise, reminiscent of a small kitten trying to roar, and plopped down on the floor, arms crossed. “I don’t like him. I’m staying here.”

 

Bruce was, generally, an exceptionally behaved child - outside of an adventurous streak, he listened to what his parents or Alfred demanded of him, with little fanfare. The only times Alfred could recall Bruce being difficult was in regards to his parents’ parties, which the boy absolutely loathed - Alfred was guilty of spoiling him, and hiding him in the exact places Martha would never look.


	28. bruce & dick

Yellow afternoon light curled in through the window and slithered down the blankets; the den was soft and warm, in the pleasant sort of way that teased all of the stress out of Bruce and quite nearly had him lulled to sleep. He couldn’t sleep. If he slept, he’d miss this, so he kept himself awake by periodically pressing on a jagged cut in the meat of his palm, one he’d from a piece of scrap that embedded itself in the guts of the Batmobile. 

 

Dick had taken a knife to the gut the night before, one dipped in black poison. The antidote had slipped into effect just a hair fast enough to save Dick’s life, but not nearly fast enough to spare him the vile consequences; he’d spent most of the night vomiting over a hell of a fever, which had broken at midday and left him shivering, the kind of cold even hot water couldn’t melt away. Bruce had helped him into the den, where Dick buried himself under blankets and against Bruce’s side, like a needy cat, snoring softly into Bruce’s shoulder. Bruce thumbed over the hair at his temple until it was smooth, and then took to working out the tangles in Dick’s curls with his fingers.

 

It had been a while, since he’d gotten to see what Dick’s face looked like free of the points of stress around his brows and mouth. It was hard to remember the weight Dick carried, because he wore it as effortlessly as birds wore the wind; Dick didn’t simply bear weight, he owned it, made it belong to him. It was easy to forget how hard his life had been. It was easy to forget how good of a liar Dick was, how his smiles could be fake and brittle, because Dick wore his light over his skin and tucked his darkness away. If Bruce could spare him that, if it would take his heart or his mind or his life to spare Dick that, he would. He would watch his parents die a hundred times, a thousand times, forever, if it meant Dick smiling again - sometimes it felt like the world tilted off its axis whenever Dick smiled and it was plastic, hard, refused to meet his eyes.

 

So Bruce stayed awake, listening to his son’s east breathing, watching the childlike expression with barely contained love. For a moment, the lightness in his chest was too much, and he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Dick’s temple; Dick stirred, mumbling slightly, and then curled closer to Bruce. Bruce’s breath caught, and he sat very still, like a bird had landed on his finger. So he stayed awake, and watched.

  
  
  
  



	29. bruce & clark

“They’re really a beautiful couple,” Clark said, adjusting his tie. “They love each other more than anything.”

 

Bruce grunted.

 

“They look great together. I’m happy for them.”

 

Bruce grunted.

 

“And—”

 

“For God’s sake, give me that,” Bruce growled, jerking Clark towards him. “You’re fiddling with it.”

 

Clark huffed. “I can tie a tie.”

 

“I know you can. But if you keep messing with it, I’m going to skin you.”

 

Clark gagged when Bruce slid the knot up the tie. “Are you trying to choke me?”

 

Bruce chuckled, and patted his shoulder.

 

Clark beamed at him. The look made something in Bruce’s chest tighten, so he looked away, out across the grounds.

 

Dick and Barbara had wanted to be married in the gardens of Wayne Manor, which Damian had gently and lovingly coaxed to life over the years. The flowerbeds were filled with fat blooms drooping on their stalks: blue tulip bulbs hopping out of a forest of leaves; the rumpled petals of peonies turning into a vast sea of pink; bushes of spinning dahlia in carmine; the roses, bulbous and scarlet and as big as one of Bruce’s hands; and, finally, the ancient weeping willow, who loved them each and guarded them with its great wings.

 

Beneath the willow, a white arch woven through with canary yellow freesia flowers, stood on a stage. A crowd milled before it, moving slowly towards the massive ballroom the reception would be held in; smiles peppered the crowd, laughs puckered the air. Bruce remembered the look on Dick’s face, when he’d kissed Barbara, and the tightness in his chest threatened to crack open and unfurl, like a flower of its own.

 

Clark bumped his shoulder. “Come on, cocktail’s over.”

 

Bruce followed, ignoring the way Clark wiped at his eyes—he’d been looking down at his tie so Bruce wouldn’t see the tears pricking at the corner of his eyes, of course. Of course, because it was Clark. He somewhat hoped Tim, who had come with his polaroid slung around his neck, and had been snapping pictures of everyone, had gotten a picture.

 

There were no entrances, because no one in attendance needed introducing. Everyone spilled into the ballroom that Jason and Clark had spent the better part of last night converting into a reception hall without ceremony; there were gasps here and there over the overflowing flower arrangements, the gold lights that crowded tables in rich tablecloths. There were tables bedecked in food, which Bruce had spent hours with Damian and Alfred preparing.

 

A cheer billowed out from the crowd at the bride and groom’s grand entrance; Dick tilted up Barbara’s wheelchair so she was turned to the sky, and Barbara’s laughter was lost in a plume of fiery hair and Dick’s dark head coming down to plant a kiss on her crown. Dick and Barbara rolled side-by-side to the glimmering marble floor at the center of the hall, beneath the massive wings of the crystal chandelier. The original had been one of the most expensive chandeliers in the world, before the quake had destroyed it.

 

After years of watching his son, and now his daughter-in-law, use grace and power to spill blood, watching them dance with love shook him. Dick’s hands had beaten the Joker to death. Now, they skimmed along Barbara’s back, twirling her in her wheelchair. Barbara’s laugh was sharp as any bullet. Now, it floated out of the window, to join the chirping robins and the lazily swaying, corpulent buds in Damian’s garden. Their dance was beautiful, if such a simple word could describe something so precious as this. 

 

Without comment, Clark tossed a handkerchief on his lap.


	30. bruce & gotham

June. Hot, muggy. The suit is clinging to every part of flesh it can. It’s taking more energy to force himself to not think about the cave, the darkness, the coolness, the chatter of the bats that he’s come to find relaxing. He can go home, soon, and peel this armor off and lay Batman to rest, shoo Alfred off to bed, peer through Dick’s cracked door and make sure he’s doing alright. Nightmares will be in full swing, by then. Bruce will slip in the bed beside him, fish  _ Alice in Wonderland _ out from between the mattress and the boxspring, and after a few murmured paragraphs Dick will explain his dream in bloody detail, and Bruce will hum, and he’ll pull the boy a little tighter to him and try to find his words. The words will not be there.

 

If Dick couldn’t sleep, he’ll be cartwheeling about the cave, waiting for him. Bruce will say something half-hearted about going to sleep on time, Dick will respond with a raised eyebrow, but then his mind will have shifted to the  _ vigilante _ track and he’ll ask impatient questions and Bruce will offer patient answers. He’ll wrestle Dick upstairs, breaking Alfred’s no-capes-above-ground rule, and then he’ll peel the armor off. Dick would be waiting in his bedroom, then, because Dick only stays up when he’s scared Bruce’s grapple line had snapped. Those nights, Dick sleeps curled into his side, and Bruce slings an arm around him. He will try not to feel awkward about the warm thing in his chest, and he will try not to feel relief that he doesn’t have to search again for the nonexistent words.

 

It has become something of a routine, the product of fumbling weeks of Bruce wading his way through guardianship, of Dick wading his way through luxury and the complicated people he’s found himself surrounded by, and Alfred waiting with sharp eyes for the mistake, when he gets to ferry hot chocolate to a boy hiding in the gardens for the first time in over a decade.

 

That is later. It is not later. Now, he is curled at the bottom of a rusty fire escape, observing the quiet street through the bars. The rust is thick, and old, and it clings to his tongue. He’s near the oldest parts of Gotham, where the buildings cannot be torn down because they’ve been declared historical landmarks, underneath the graffiti and industrial rot.

 

It would be unfortunate if the owner of the apartment decided to use the fire escape right at this moment, because the way Bruce is hunkered down, they probably wouldn’t see him. They’d walk right into him. Two possibilities: they fall forward, over him, or they fall backward. Bruce keeps his hand near his grappling hook.

 

For the past few nights, there has been a series of robberies - someone is stealing things from the artisan shops on this street, likely to re-sell them. A small-time criminal. It has been a quiet summer for Gotham.

 

As he scans the street, a lamppost catches his eye; among the various garage sale and rental and missing person posters, there’s a plain one, nailed low to the ground. About a child’s height, which would match the clumsiness of the drawing, and what is probably the wrinkled, abused texture of the paper. It could be the shadows. He is far away.

 

He does not jump over the railing and swoop into the darkness - he lodges his fingers into one of the wall’s deep grooves, tests his hold, and then swings off of the fire escape and presses himself flush against the bricks. Then he crawls, slipping down until he lands, near silently, in the alley. Jumping into the dark is fun, and he does it at every opportunity, but he has no intention of being hamstrung by clotheslines today. The alleyways of Old Gotham are not bat-friendly. 

 

The pole is on the other side of the street, and the drawing is exactly what he thinks it is - a bat. Specifically, his. His hand touches the symbol on his chest absently. It looks folded, like a letter. Children writing letters to Batman - like they would Santa Claus. The idea is baffling. Who would send their Christmas wish list to the Grinch?

 

He sneaks across the street. He pulls the letter off of the pole, fingers the edges of it. Curiouser and curioser - there’s a blot on the left corner, spit, water. Tears, by the angle and size of the droplet. Probably not spit. It looks like the substance was thin, by the way it ran across the surface. Thinner than spit.

 

He pulls the tape off the top, delicately - blue painter’s tape - and flips the letter open. The scrawl is that of a toddler barely learning to write, or an older kid who fell through the cracks of Gotham’s educational system. 

 

It takes some work to decipher: 

 

_ “Dear Batman _

 

_ Rember my daddy the man you saved from g uns yesterday? He is ok now. I told Mommy that I need to tell you thank you because you always tell somone thank you when they do nice things. She gave me the paper but she dont tape it. I hope you find it Batman. Thank you for saving my daddy Batman. I would been very sad if he been dead because he the one who loves me. I hope your daddy loves you Batman!  _

 

_ P.S. I think you need a mail box because it would be easy to sned you mail. Please get a mail box.  _

 

_ Tank you _

_ Nikya” _


	31. bruce & dick

Dick slipped his keys off his belt, jamming them into the door. The rattle of metal-on-metal echoed in the gray hour; he was only now arriving to his apartment, smothering a limp in his left leg. He’d twisted his ankle in a pool of moonlight the night before, and had spent the day with his fist bunched white-knuckled in his pocket, hoping to sink all his pain and tension into the grip. It had failed, and he wandered home more exhausted than before. 

 

He dropped his glinting badge on the counter, and his heavy set of keys, and his hat, before unbuckling the black belt. The gun that clung to it settled on the counter with a heavy thump, and it was then that Dick’s exhausted eyes settled on the white tile itself.

 

Sparkling. Smelled faintly of lemon-scented cleaner, the flowery smell of the candles he’d bought but never lighted, even, not an errant drop of soy or pizza sauce to be found. There wasn’t the heavy, cloying taste of old takeout, or the vague reek of sweat from the couch where he’d been collapsing there, too tired to trudge the twenty feet to his shower. There weren’t rows of drinks snagged from Taco Whiz on his coffee table, no trash, no clothes, no mail strewn about; beneath it all, he could even remember that his apartment had looked nice when he’d signed the lease. 

 

Most telling, though, were the flowers; a glass vase had been set on the center of his coffee table, filled with gentle pink camellias, purple hyacinth, and white carnations. There was a note pinned to the table beside it with a batarang, and Dick tugged it free. 

 

“Forgot to buy milk,” Dick read, after a moment of squinting through Bruce’s cramped, loopy cursive. He went back to the kitchen and pulled open his refrigerator, which, sure enough, was stocked with everything he could imagine, except for a gallon of milk.

 

There was a part of him that wanted to raise its crowned head and rail against the very thought of Bruce’s interference - some independent voice that had wanted Dick to be the one to clean his own apartment, stock his own fridge, feed his own damn self. He could do it; he could survive without the brush of Bruce’s hand, and dammit, he’d do it if Bruce would ever give him the chance. 

 

But tonight, Dick leaned against the counter and pondered his phone, pain curling up his leg in tight, thunderous knots. He was starting to get worried he hadn’t just twisted his ankle, but done more serious damage, and wasn’t recognizing it because he didn’t want to see it, and his wyes were puffy and heavy, and it felt like meathooks had been threaded through his flesh and bound to the floor; he felt like Atlas, holding his own world on only the span of his shoulders, on only his own two hands. It had been easier when he’d lived in a world that Bruce had held up for him.

 

He dialed the number he knew by heart, and said, “Turn around.”

 

Bruce didn’t respond. There was only the low rumble in the background to show he was even there at all. 

 

Dick sighed. “I’m serious, turn around. It’s Friday. You really think you’ll be able to get back to the Manor anytime soon with all that traffic?”

 

“I’ve passed it.”

 

“Liar. Those candles haven’t been burning even ten minutes. C’mon, turn around. The last thing you need is to blow a gasket because you got stuck in weekend traffic for two hours.”

 

Bruce grunted, and hung up. It sounded vaguely like the grunt he made when he was agreeing reluctantly to something, so Dick supposed he had made some illegal maneuver and turned around, pissing off any number of people. Dick limped to the shower, and took his time luxuriating like a cat in the hot water; every bit of him hurt, ached down all the way to the soul, but something about having a clean apartment and food that didn’t come from a drive-thru window made the world feel less like it was designed to  _ make _ him hurt.

 

By the time he’d pulled on some soft pants and a t-shirt Bruce had, presumably, come in through the window, and was rifling curiously through a book he’d pulled off Dick’s shelf. His back, Dick noted, was angled specifically at the kitchen. Dick had forgotten to put the gun away. 

 

“This doesn’t seem your style,” Bruce huffed. 

 

Dick shrugged, leaning against the doorway. Water from his hair rolled down his neck. “I didn’t read it, to be honest. One of the local shops was having a free book day, I just grabbed something.”

 

“Parents have the choice to have their child unwound before a certain age,” Bruce said. His frown deepened in distaste, rumpling his chin. “Physically unwound. Their organs are removed.”

 

Dick chuckled, and Bruce cut a sharp look at him. Dick shrugged again. “What? You just seem so… displeased. How dare a writer write what they want, even if it’s a little fucked up.”

 

Bruce huffed, and snapped the book shut, settling a bit deeper into the couch. Dick moved to the kitchen, forcing himself to walk on his stiff leg - for whatever reason, he didn’t know. The crowned head of his independence, maybe.

 

“What brought you to town today?” Dick asked, tucking the gun into a cabinet. The tense line of Bruce’s shoulders eased. 

 

“Business.”   
  


“Did Lucius finally wrestle you into a meeting room?”

 

Bruce hummed. “Matches was building connections today.”

“One of these days, I might be taking you away in handcuffs if you’re not careful,” Dick joked. He sniffed the air. “Wait. Is that food?”

 

“I left it in the microwave.”

 

Dick flung open his cabinet, snatching a plate. “Oh, hell yes. Is that lasagna? Tell Alfred he’s the greatest.”

 

“Hnh.”   
  


Dick stabbed a piece, stuffing it in his mouth. He moaned. “You don’t know how long I’ve been wishing for this - I had McDonald’s two nights in a row last week. Two! Al would have my head on a pike.”   
  


Bruce’s curious, sharp eye was on him now. “Busy?”

 

Dick hacked away at a corner of the lasagna. “Sure,” he said, after a moment. “It’s been busy. Lots of late nights. Still haven’t gone out tonight.”

 

“You won’t be.”

 

Dick stilled. “What, you straighten up, you bring me food, and then my life is  _ yours _ to run? Shove it, Bruce.”

 

Bruce’s face twitched, like he was having a hard time being pleasant. “Your leg,” he said, evenly. “You’re not going out with that leg.”

 

Of course Bruce would notice. Dick hadn’t really expected him not to. Dick swallowed another piece, and said, “What do you think I am, a lost baby lamb? Of course I’m not. I didn’t talk you into coming back here just to leave you.”

 

Bruce leaned back, folded his hands over his stomach. He watched, with that same sharp hawk’s eye, while Dick scarfed down a second serving of lasagna. Usually their silences were comfortable, companionable, when Dick wasn’t filling them up with chatter, but today the silence needled him in the side.

 

As Dick was running water over his plate, Bruce stood. Dick was half-scared Bruce was leaving until he said, “Let me look at that leg.”

 

“It’ll be fine,” Dick said, even as he hopped over to the couch. He probably should have sat down to eat, just to give it a rest.

 

Bruce lifted his ankle, and prodded at it with warm, soft fingers. After a while, he disappeared into the bathroom, returning wordlessly with white wrap.

 

“That bad?” Dick asked.

 

“Mm,” Bruce replied. He wrapped it tightly and then rolled the leg of Dick’s sweatpants back down, patting Dick’s knee. “Rest it.”

 

“Will I live, doc?”

 

“If you get some sleep,” Bruce said, seriously.

 

“You’re really not having it with the jokes, huh,” Dick said. He patted the couch. “You’re staying, right? Let’s watch a movie.”

 

Bruce cast a glance at the window. Undoubtedly, he was thinking about the same thing that was plaguing Dick; the people that would swarm the streets, the guns, the bullets, the blood. The people that could die tonight that they wouldn’t be there to save, the people who would face worse than death. 

 

Dick grabbed Bruce’s wrist. “We both know you weren’t in town just because of Matches. You look like hell. You get paranoid when you’ve been up too long. You were in town for me. So sit down, before you fall asleep behind the batwheel.”

 

Bruce raised an eyebrow. “The batwheel?”

 

“Oh, just sit down, you nut,” Dick huffed, and Bruce took the seat beside him. 

 

Somewhere between scenes, Dick slid down until he was against Bruce’s chest. As he dozed, he could have sworn he felt fingers playing lightly with his hair, but he was asleep before he could prove it.


	32. clark & damian

Metropolis failed in every way Gotham succeeded; the buildings here climbed to the sky and seemed to get taller every year, reaching to be the first tomorrow’s sun would eclipse; the air here was warm and didn’t taste of salt, instead tasting of the sweet greenery from the park; and the buildings were light and smooth and welcoming. A bat felt in Metropolis the way everyone did in Gotham city: like there was nowhere to hide.

 

Damian wasn’t hiding. He was sitting on the top of a skyscraper swinging his legs aimlessly while the wind threatened to tip him over the edge, and his hands were folded in his lap like he had nothing better to do. Beneath the yellow edge of his cape, his fist was wrapped tight enough around a batarang to cut into the padding over the meat of his thumb. His father didn’t forge batarangs to be gripped tightly like this; he forged them to be sharp, and fast, and cold, and nothing else.

 

Below him, Superman shook the hand of one of the firemen, the complex across from them coughing thin gray plumes. Earlier, it had been a column of black ash, but now the combined efforts of the Man of Steel and the fire department had brought it to a quiet smolder that slowly edged and edged more into silence.

 

Superman exchanged a few words with the firemen, a few laughs, and then he was rising into the air, cape flowering about him. He offered a salute, and then shot through the sky, faster than a speeding bullet. His departure left a hole in the clouds, and it, even, was swallowed by the ebb and flow of the clouds.

 

Damian wasn’t sure what he’d come here expecting; that Superman, Clark, would look up from the ground and meet Damian’s gaze, and then he’d smile, and that smile would carry to Damian over the early morning sun and it would be fine. The infernal concern would melt like water evaporated in the desert. Damian would stand, and Robin would fly home, and when he got home there would be no body sleeping soundly in the medbay’s snow-white cot.

 

“Robin?” a voice sounded behind him.   
  


Damian screeched, and the wind pitched him forward. He was falling for scarcely a second before his cape caught, and he started swinging uselessly in the air.

 

Clark ducked his head down to Damian’s eye level. “I didn’t mean to scare you, Robin. But… maybe next time don’t sit so close to the edge?”

 

Clark hefted him over the lip of the building, dropping him unceremoniously. Damian’s mouth twisted, and he scrambled to his feet. “I would’ve been  _ fine,” _ he snarled. 

 

Clark quirked a brow and inclined his head, in a gesture of agreement. “I’d rather catch you than force you to catch yourself.”

 

Damian straightened his cape, grumbling to himself, because he found he had no real answer to that.

 

Clark sat on the edge of the building, back towards the street, one leg stretched on in front of him. He patted the cement beside him. “Hop up,” he said.

 

Damian crossed his arms and did not move.

 

“Have it your way,” Clark said. The casual way he said it made Damian feel some regret; because Clark wouldn’t have minded if Damian had sat on the edge with him, and huddled briefly in that warm, safe air that Superman seemed to create as the sun did light. “What’s up, Damian?”

 

“Nothing,” Damian snapped. “I was looking for Superboy.”

 

“He and Lois are at the museum,” Clark said. “If you wanted, I could run by the apartment and get us some clothes, and we could meet them. I could ask Bruce.”

 

“Don’t tell my father I’m here,” Damian said. He cursed himself internally when Clark’s eyebrow raised curiously; Clark, he’d come to find, was more than simply an alien with extraordinary powers. He was good at baiting traps, sneaking motives like scavengers would sneak morsels of meat from the mouths of lions.

 

“Are you in a fight with him?”

 

“You’d already know,” Damian shot back. “Stop trying to trick me. I don’t want to talk about it.”

 

“Okay.”

 

Damian hissed. “Okay? Is that it?”

 

Clark shrugged. “If you want it to be, sure.”

 

“What kind of an answer is that?”   
  


“The honest one,” Clark said. He patted the stone beside him again. “Damian, c’mere, for a sec.”

 

Damian slunk over, and sat decently far away from Clark. The man’s presence was comforting all the same.    
  


“I won’t force you to talk. But you didn’t come here for no reason, either. If what you need is to sit here for a minute, sure, we can do that. If you need to be with Jon for a bit, we can do that, too. I’m not trying to trick you, son.”

 

Clark didn’t look at Damian as he said it; instead, he turned his face to the sky, watching the clouds shift and turn. Damian, for some unfathomable reason, appreciated it.

 

“Grayson was injured,” Damian mumbled. “He and Father were fighting.”

 

“That part I knew.”

 

Damian cut a look at him.

 

Clark raised a brow. “When your pa gets angry, who do you think he goes to?”

 

“Batman.”

 

Clark laughed, just a small, huffy one. “Okay, point taken. I see that. But Batman’s a different kind of anger. Batman’s an anger from the soul. We’re talking about an anger from the heart. He’s angry ‘cause he’s worried. You’re upset because you’re worried, and you’re frustrated with them both. Am I right about that?”

 

“Maybe.” 

 

“So I am. What happened?” Clark asked.

 

Damian’s brow scrunched. “You already know, don’t you?”

 

“Looking at something from a different angle changes what it looks like,” Clark said. “And, also, I have super vision.”

 

“That’s not how that works.”

 

“How would you know?” Clark accused, but he was wearing a light smile.

 

Damian glared. “Fine. Grayson did something that was poorly advised. Father reacted far too strongly, and now they’re both insufferable. Happy?”

 

“Have you told them that?”

 

“My father would not listen.”

 

Clark’s mouth quirked, and he nodded his head. “Maybe. But in all the years I’ve known him, I’ve known him to be a good listener. He’s just good at coming up with reasons to refute what he’s told. And that’s not on you.”

 

Damian huffed. “You don’t know him as well as you think. I was under the impression that bats had good hearing.”

 

Clark chuckled. “But if you tell him and he ignores you, you tried. The main thing is the trying. And have you talked to Dick?”

 

“No.”

 

“Why?”

 

Damian picked at the slice in his gauntlet. “He knows he was an idiot. It would be redundant.”

 

“Why is it stupid?”

 

Damian dropped his hands, something like rage coiling neatly in his gut. “Because he was injured!”

 

Clark looked down at him, and his eyes were like ice chips, were like the sea reflecting off melting pack ice, and the rage in Damian’s gut fizzled like the fire in the building had. “And why,” Clark said, softly, “is it bad that he was injured?”   
  


“Because - he’s needed. He’s… he is precious.”

 

“He’s needed by you, and is precious to you,” Clark said. “Tell him that he scared you, because you don’t want to lose him.”

 

Damian bristled at the very idea. “That is nonsense.”

 

“That’s how I get your pa to stop being an idiot,” Clark said. 

 

“He listens to no man.”

 

Clark shrugged. “Kryptonians not included.”

 

Damian crossed his arms. After a long beat of silence, he said, “It… would be alright if I attended the museum with yourself and Superboy. If I made an agreement to confess these things.”

 

Clark smiled. “Absolutely.”


	33. bruce & dick

Bruce had always had an unspoken vendetta against his birthday; he scorned celebration of it, ruthlessly treated it like it was another day in a life of days that he personally wanted to carve away at until they all appeared the same. Dick did not agree. Most years, as a kid, he had made it a point to cajole Alfred into a chocolate cake, and he and Alfred would go into the city and find Bruce a present. It was always innocuous, always cheap; it was the thought that mattered most. One year, Dick had gotten him a stress ball, and Dick saw it sometimes rolling with the contents of the the left-hand drawer in the big mahogany desk Bruce had in the study. He knew Bruce kept them all. 

 

After he moved out, the practice waned. Birthday calls sputtered out and died after Bruce adopted Jason. Any calls at all were a rarity, then. There was a shameful day, not long after Jason died, where Dick hadn’t even remembered it was Bruce’s birthday at all; at some point, he had become more concerned with whether or not he’d see Bruce again than banal things like celebrations. Sometimes Dick wondered if all those missed calls would’ve made a difference. 

 

It had taken time, and gentle care, but Dick and Bruce had built back some of what they’d lost. Dick could go to the Manor now without feeling out of place, and sometimes Bruce made an expression that, years ago, would’ve been a smile, and it wasn’t enough, but they made it work. Dick nursed his private fear that losing Jason had broken something in Bruce irrevocably, that the man who had raised him was quietly snuffed out like a candlelight, and held on. There wasn’t a person in the world he loved maybe more than he loved Bruce. He could hold on. 

 

“You can take that off, y’know,” Dick said. “Actually, please take it off, don’t sit on my couch with your gross suit.”

 

Batman stared at him. Dick could feel the weight of his judgement; the Superman socks, the plaid pajama pants, the old Hudson University t-shirt. “The  _ case, _ Dick.”

 

“It doesn’t exist,” Dick said, casually. “I made lasagna.”

 

“What do you mean it doesn’t exist.”

 

“You’re not the only person in the world who is a liar,” Dick said. He gestured to the hall. “C’mon, get that off, there’s a bathroom down there. I snuck some of your PJ’s from the Manor, too, they’re in there.”

 

“You did what.”

 

“Hey, Mr. Failing To Prepare Is Preparing To Fail, yoo-hoo? You raised me? Of course I stole your clothes, what if you ever needed to crash here? I’m not letting you ruin my shirt,” Dick said. “And hurry up, or the bread’ll get cold.”   
  


Still, Batman did not move, standing still and silent as a breathing gargoyle. “What is this.”

 

Dick pulled two plates down from his cabinet. “Fun, Bruce, it’s fun. Remember fun?”

 

“I have serious work I need to be doing.”

 

Dick eeked out two hefty portions of lasagna, and stabbed a breadstick into each. “Are you scared of my lasagna, is that it? I’ll have you know, I got this recipe from one of the boys at the station. His wife is a culinary genius. I think Gordon Ramsay should be running for his money right now. I promise, you’ll like it, now get changed.”   
  


“Dick,” Bruce said, and his voice was quiet but hard. He didn’t continue speaking. 

 

Dick stopped, closed his eyes. When he opened them, he turned to Bruce with his hands perched on his hips and said, “Look. Just do it for me, alright? We used to have movie nights all the time when I was a kid. Maybe I miss it. It’s your birthday, you can relax for a night.”

 

Bruce huffed, but then went still. “... birthday?”

 

“Oh, God. You forgot your birthday, didn’t you. You’re unbelievable. I bought you ice cream cake, and from the nicest shop in ‘Haven, too.”

 

“... ice cream cake.”

 

Dick offered Bruce a grin. “Double peanut butter and chocolate. You’ll never want to eat anything else.”

 

Bruce stood for a minute, watching Dick adjust the placement of the forks on the plates, and then moved down the hall, silent as a cat. The acceptance put a weird, bubbly feeling in Dick’s chest, and if he did a bit of a dramatic spin while pulling the bottle of champagne out of the fridge, well, there was no one there to see. 

 

By the time Bruce came back, the plates were set up on the coffee table with gleaming glasses of champagne and perfectly-folded napkins. It was the first time in a while Dick had seen him without the cowl, and Dick had forgotten how much of Bruce’s mood could be read off just the turn of his brow. Just then, Bruce looked like he’d been awake for three days, which had slowly stopped being a cause for concern. Now, it was almost what normal looked like. 

 

Bruce leaned against the doorway, observing dinner curiously. “Is that champagne?”

 

Dick clapped his hands. “Yes! It is champagne. It’s not every day a man turns seventy-nine, Bruce.” 

 

Bruce cut him a look. “Don’t make me feel old.”

 

Dick rubbed at the back of his neck. “I was sort of planning on watching Star Wars, actually, but, uh. We can watch something newer?”   
  


“That’s fine,” Bruce rumbled, in that dark way that meant this was actually more than fine. 

 

Dick settled on the couch. With an impish expression, he said, “We could always watch the prequels.”

 

“You’re pushing it.”

 

“Didn’t you know, ‘I hate sand,’ is a cinematic masterpiece of a moment? C’mon, Bruce, you’re degrading art.”   
  


“I will spit in your drink,” Bruce said, venomously, and Dick laughed. 

  
They ate, and Bruce tossed him a compliment about his cooking. Dick even had the satisfaction of watching Bruce’s eyes widen slightly when he saw the cake. It didn’t really matter that Bruce fell asleep halfway through  _ The Empire Strikes Back  _ \- Dick just pressed a kiss to his temple, dug out some blankets, and fell asleep beside him. And maybe that was enough.


	34. bruce & clark

“Did you see what Dinah sent, by the way?” Clark asked, tapping at his phone. “‘You shouldn’t have let Hal drive the bus.’ About died laughing at that.”

 

Clark leaned forward, twisted the phone so Bruce could see the string of messages. Bruce resolutely did not look up from his laptop, so Clark shook the phone a little. “C’mon, we know you can smile now. Photographic proof.”

 

“Nn. I deleted it.”

 

Clark raised a brow and dropped his phone back on the table. “What?”

 

Bruce looked up, brows folded over pale eyes. “I deleted it. From your phone. When you went to get a sandwich.”

 

Of course.

 

“No, I mean, what makes you think that matters?” Clark asked. “I already sent it to everyone. Ma said she’s going to get it framed.”

 

The corner of Bruce’s lips quirked down, probably at the security risks implied by the idea of Martha Kent having a framed picture of Batman sitting on one of her lace table runners, surrounded by fresh-picked flowers from the garden. It would look good next to the picture of a surly, sixteen-year-old Superman getting kissed by his mother on the temple, Clark thought. 

 

“Maybe we should keep one in the meeting room,” Clark said. “Or the break room. We could put it on top of the fridge.”

 

“I put fifty on Jordan drawing a penis on it by Monday.”

 

Clark laughed. “Bet. He’s got more self-restraint than you think he does.”

 

The flat look Bruce sent him over the lid of his laptop was so baleful that Clark laughed again, this time loud enough for Alfred to come sneaking by the doorway to peer imperiously into the study, one thin eyebrow raised in an expression that resembled disdain but was probably contentment. 

 

They fell back into their work easily enough. Sometimes, when Clark was feeling cynical, it felt as if that was the core of their friendship; working together in silence. Then he remembered Batman’s warmth at his back as they drew together to fight side-by-side, the dark shape of Batman as he hurtled through a fight towards Clark. He was always running towards Clark, never away.

 

“Cold?” Clark asked, after a while.

Bruce’s hands stilled where they’d been shifting the thick fleece blanket he’d wrapped around his shoulders. It was one of the strange quirks he had. Weakness in front of anyone - shuddering, crying, bleeding - was somehow unconscionable. Yet, toting around the thickest blanket Clark had ever seen and hunkering down like a grouchy bear was not. 

 

“Hnh,” was all Bruce said.

 

Clark let him wait an hour. Then he said, “You’re just typing gibberish, aren’t you.”

 

Bruce sighed. He pushed himself away from the desk, scrubbing at his eyes. “Possibly. Probably. That’s not how x-ray vision works.”

 

It took Clark a breath of time to understand Bruce was asking about how he knew, rather than punting a random statement into the conversation. That was talking to Bruce; random twists and turns, and he always expected you to keep up. 

 

“It’s not,” Clark agreed. “But you’re not hitting the right keys.”

 

Bruce shot him a look, and then squinted at his laptop screen. “I think I’ve forgotten how to spell.”

 

Clark chuckled. “No, that’s just what happens when you’re tired, really.”

 

Bruce’s expression darkened curiously. He pulled open drawers, rooting around in them with a broad hand. He pulled out a pair of glasses with a please noised, and settled them on the bend in his nose where it’d been broken and never healed properly.

 

Clark stood, stretching, scanning the towering bookshelf. The library was packed wall-to-wall, ceiling-to-floor with old, leatherbound books, and Bruce stored their newer books in the study. The library was drafty, and the study, especially with the fire going, was probably the warmest room in the house.

 

Bruce made a frustrated grunt, and Clark turned to look at him with a raised brow.

 

Bruce tossed his glasses on the table. “You’re going to have to look over this for me.”

 

Clark nodded. “Of course. Go get some sleep.”

 

“Don’t need sleep,” Bruce growled. He turned his head to Clark, and the paleness of his eyes made it so they almost appeared to have the same blank quality of the lenses in his cowl.

 

Clark studied him thoughtfully. “Why is your thyroid working slow?”

 

Bruce’s eyebrow shot to his hairline. “You’ve been talking to Alfred?”

 

“No, that’s how x-ray vision works.”

 

Bruce’s face crumpled into the most disgusted expression he had ever seen, and Clark threw back his head with a booming laugh. 

 

“Don’t laugh at this,” Bruce snapped. “I’d like to live my life knowing you’re not intimately familiar with my internal organs, and that’s not too damn much to ask, thank you.”

 

“Too late,” Clark said, wryly. “Come on. It’s not like you ever tell me when you’re hemorrhaging internally. What are organs between friends?”

 

“The fact that you think this is a good joke disgusts me.”

 

Clark grinned. “I had you for a second, though, didn’t I?”

 

“A second,” Bruce muttered. “I’m going to tell Alfred you were listening in on him. How is Dick?”

 

“He said he’s doing well,” Clark said. “And listening to one phone conversation is nothing in this  house. I know you have everyone tapped.”

 

“Hnh.”

 

“So why is your thyroid hypo?” Clark asked. He came around to sit back on the couch, balanced an ankle over his knee. “Actually, what does that mean?”

 

“Everything moves slower,” Bruce said. “Can’t stay warm. Can’t stay awake. Dizzy.”

 

“You ought to stop trying to type,” Clark said. 

 

Bruce’s eyes fluttered shut, and his head started dipping. 

 

“Picking corn,” Clark said, loudly enough to startle Bruce awake. “That’s what we call that.”

 

“Why in the hell,” Bruce mumbled. It was clear this little bit of conversation had sapped whatever was left of his energy, after spending a few hours trying to work; his eyes were unfocused and his hands trembled. 

 

“Chickens bob their heads to pick corn,” Clark said, sliding an arm around the blanket, vaguely under Bruce’s shoulder. “Up and away, Bruce.”

 

“I can walk,” Bruce snarled, but it had little heat to it, and he didn’t try to push Clark away. If anything, he shrank closer to Clark, like a lizard seeking the heat of the sun.

 

Clark led him through the halls, to the guest suite Bruce had always used as his own. Bruce bundled himself up in the blankets, and pulled the corner up to his nose, so the only bit of him visible was his graying hair and frowning eyes. 

 

“I hate this,” he said, venomously. It was too exhausted to have much weight. “Can’t even get the damn paperwork done.”

 

“Gimme a sec,” Clark said. He came back in half a minute, holding up Bruce’s sleek black laptop. “League reports, right? I can write those.”

 

“I’ll do them,” Bruce said. “In an hour.”

 

“I had to carry you here.”

 

“I could’ve walked,” Bruce snapped. 

 

Clark settled on the bed beside Bruce. “You can’t pull off scary in a blanket cocoon.”

 

Bruce gave him a black look that said just about what he thought of that, and Clark huffed. “Y’know, at least tell me you’re taking meds for this.”

 

“No,” Bruce said. “It’s... quitting meds, actually.”

 

Clark tilted his head in question.

 

“Lithium,” Bruce clarified. “Induces hypothyroidism.”

 

Clark frowned. “What do you take lithium for?”

 

Bruce’s voice was muffled where he was pressed into Clark’s arm. “Mood stabilizer. Old meds stopped working, switched. Didn’t go well.”

 

“You missed a few meetings,” Clark said. “That was why?”

 

A soft breath. “Didn’t mean to.”

 

Clark flipped open the lid of the laptop. “Hey, what did you say your password was again?”

 

A snore answered him.

 

“Oh,  _ asshole.” _


	35. bruce & steph

Batman was silent for such a long time, Steph thought he might have actually fallen asleep; if Batman had given the impression that he was anything other than coldly in control, she might have actually believed it. He crouched over Gotham, one boot planted squarely on the head of the gargoyle, arms folded over his knee, with that gaze that pierced every brick. 

 

After what had to be twenty minutes of shifting foot-to-foot, Steph said, “Well?”   
  


Batman drew himself to his full height, almost a full foot taller than she was. He was still staring out at Gotham. “I could train you,” he said, finally.

 

“I won’t let you down,” Steph said. She’d tried to smother the excitement in her voice, but had failed, because Batman’s blank eyes were now glinting at her through the shadows. It felt reproving, but maybe that was just the way his voice sounded.

 

“I would train you harder than any Robin before you,” he said. “I am a difficult man to work with on a good day, Spoiler. I train each of my students to be the best that they can be. You will give me every ounce of your effort, and then some, and just when you think it’s over, I will take you to the next level. You will work harder than you’ve ever worked in your life. If you can give me that, I will make you… the best.”

 

Batman had stepped closer to her during his speech, and now stood before her, looking down with an impartial and cutting gaze. “I’m ready,” she said. “I can do it. I  _ can.” _

 

“Then I will train you to be the perfect Robin, Stephanie Brown,” Batman said. He hooked his fingers around the edge of his cowl, and before Steph realized what she was seeing, Bruce Wayne’s shadow-chiseled face was staring down at her. 

 

Steph took his offered hand. “You won’t be disappointed. I’m ready,” she said, and she was.


	36. bruce & steph

The Cave was dark and pleasant and quiet; the blackness melted forth and wrapped Bruce like a blanket, the air was cool without being cold and tasted less damp and tangy than usual, and the silence was companionable. Occasionally, Steph would mutter something to the pages of her homework. Bruce knew she had something on her mind, but he didn’t press it, and somehow he found the nervous way Steph avoided the question more endearing than annoying, so he was content to wait. It was a good night. 

 

“I think I was using your son as a beard,” Steph blurted. 

 

Bruce’s hands stopped moving. He was gutting one of Mr. Freeze’s discarded guns; at first he was searching for evidence, taking note of materials and taking pictures of designs to look for similarities with other manufactured weapons, but now he’d found himself mostly curious and had kept digging. “I think Tim is quite a bit too big for that.”

 

“No, that’s not it,” Steph said, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “A beard is -”

 

“I know what a beard is,” Bruce said. He stared at her intently, noting the way her hand jumped to fidget with her hair. “I was trying to make a joke.”

 

Steph’s eyebrows crawled to her hairline. “Oh my God. Can I teach you comedy? Can I, please? Come over here, I’ve got Netflix, we can watch some John Mulaney bits.”

 

“Who,” Bruce hummed, adjusting his glasses on his nose to get a better look at the gun’s release mechanism. 

 

“I can’t believe Alfred deprived you of culture,” Steph muttered. “What a cruel thing to do to an orphan.” 

 

It was perhaps the absurdity of the statement, or Bruce’s imagination putting together an image of Alfred’s expression if Steph ever shared such a sentiment with him, but Bruce laughed a real belly laugh. 

 

Steph grinned with him. “Now that we’ve gotten past the fact that you’re a poor, culturally deprived moose, can we get back to the actual topic?” 

 

Bruce nodded at her, and she flicked her hair, spread her hands flat against her notebook, and looked at him seriously. “I think I used your son as a beard.”

 

“Yes, we went over that part.”

 

“So?” Steph asked. 

 

“So,” Bruce repeated back. Steph groaned, and Bruce pulled off his glasses and looked at her. “What?”

 

“So what? I used your son as a beard! You’re supposed to have a reaction!” 

 

Bruce pressed a hand against the table, leaning on one hip. Truly, Victor had a brilliant engineering mind. “What reaction am I supposed to have?”

 

“Shock! Horror! Maybe throwing me out, I don’t know!”

 

Bruce stopped, and felt his heart twist, and was hot with pain through his throat. “Stephanie. I think you’re asking me to react to the fact that you have sexual attraction to women, not the fact that you tried to hide it by dating my son.” 

 

Steph blinked, and then her mouth turned into a harsh twist. “So? You gonna throw me out?” 

 

Her voice had taken on a hard, haughty tone: a challenge. 

 

“That,” Bruce said, “would make me one hell of a hypocrite. Stephanie. I’m not ever going to throw you out of this cave because of your sexual orientation.” 

 

Steph flicked her pen, watching it roll up the table. “Thanks. I mean, God, that sounded stupid, but -”

 

“Don’t thank me for doing the bare minimum,” Bruce said. Here, he stared at her solemnly. “I might still throw you out for sticking gum under the bench.”

 

“It was one time, and we were in a rush!” 

 

“No excuses.”

 

Steph groaned, and made a production of pulling at her hair. After silence between them had sprouted and grown, Steph said, “Wait, you did just imply you were gay, right? I did hear that?” 

 

“Yes,” Bruce said. His glasses were perched on the end of his nose once more, and he peered empirically through them at a coil of the gun he had pulled free. “Although I think the term is bisexual. Steph. You’re safe here.” 

 

Steph choked. “So that’s why you were so nice to the gay strippers! You didn’t want information, you slick little - little -  _ ugh!” _

 

Bruce closed his eyes and breathed in deep. “I was working, Stephanie. That would be irresponsible.” 

 

Steph leaned on her elbows, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “I think the whole world just swung to the left.” 

 

“Shouldn’t it have swung both ways,” Bruce hummed. 

 

Steph giggled. “So now you have jokes, I see how it is.”

 

And the silence grew back in its rightful place. 


	37. bruce & clark & diana

“We didn’t have to go all the way out here for peanut butter,” Bruce growled. 

 

“Would it be in that aisle?” Diana asked, jerking her head to the long row of bikes. She knew full well it wouldn’t be in that aisle. She was just a little hellian, sometimes. 

 

Clark gestured his hand toward the far end of the BuyCo. “No, no, we came in through the garden section, it’s all the way up there.”

 

Bruce  _ hrrn _ ed in disapproval. “Why didn’t we just come through there.” 

 

“Well, I wanted to see if Doris was here—she works the register. I like Doris,” Clark said. “We can handle some walking.” 

 

He cast a sideways glance at Bruce, who was shuffling the stiff shuffle of someone who had been a space dragon’s chew toy a mere handful of hours ago. Bruce had argued that his attire—sunglasses, a hoodie Clark had provided him with Batman’s symbol on it, Clark’s plaid pajama pants, and a pair of crocs—would disguise him better than a pair of jeans would, but Clark thought he was really just too sore to be bothered with putting on actual clothes. Considering one of the dragons had slapped him with its tail and sent him hurtling through the air fast enough to break the speed limit in a residential area, Clark supposed Bruce was entitled to a little white lie.The sunglasses, though, were truly just to mitigate the effect of the bruises—at one point, he’d been cracked in the face with a stray horn.

 

But Diana wasn’t very fashionable either, and she didn’t really have an excuse. She was also wearing Clark’s pajamas, because she was twice as tall as Ma was and about three times as muscular, and Ma was about the size of a songbird in a garden. She’d opted to wear the button-up plaid shirt that matched Bruce’s pants and a pair of basketball shorts, yet somehow avoided looking as pitiful as Bruce did. She wore it with confidence. 

 

“Hey, we could get some movies,” Clark said, redoubling towards the technology section at the back of the store. “The bargain bin’s back here. It’ll be like a real sleepover.” 

 

“Why would you ever need a bargain bin,” Bruce said. Clark could feel his judgemental squint from behind the sunglasses.

 

Diana hummed, studying a display of Justice League plushies. She squeezed the Martian Manhunter one experimentally. “I thought it was a perfectly acceptable sleepover beforehand.” 

 

Clark shrugged. “I mean. It wasn’t really a sleepover. Bruce was the only one asleep.” 

 

“I was fine with sleeping on the floor,” Bruce snapped. There was no real bite to it, though. He was just being grouchy for the sake of being grouchy. Bruce stopped, and tilted his head to peer down one of the aisles. “Oh, good God. Diana, I found another of your shrines.”

“That is just as well,” Diana said, from beneath the shelf of Justice League plushies, “because I have found an effigy of yourself.” She pulled out a plush Batman toy, grinning, and wiggled its stubby arms at Bruce mockingly.

 

“I’m supposed to scare people,” Bruce muttered. “Not be a damn… stuffed doll.”

 

“You are still appropriately terrifying,” Diana assured him, at the same time Clark said, “You’re adorable.”

 

Clark grabbed the Batman doll. “I’ll get this for Ma, I don’t know if she has one. Oh my God. Is the Robin actually  _ smaller— _ holy moly, it is! This is precious.”

 

Diana snatched the Robin doll, and studied it curiously. “I have never seen a Robin before.”

 

“Maybe they just started making them,” Clark said. 

 

Bruce huffed. “Now you’re obligated to get them both.”

 

Clark looked at him curiously, and Bruce rattled off a sigh, and said very flatly, “Why would you want a Batman without a Robin.”

 

They rifled through the dolls for a few more minutes, eventually agreeing that the cutest, and the objectively most squeezable, of the lot was Martian Manhunter, who joined the Batman and Robin dolls in Diana’s arms. She held them protectively, as if she were holding living, breathing babies. She’d always made a point to collect the merchandise of her other heroes, as a sign of her love for them.

 

“What kind of movie were y’all thinking?” Clark asked, marching toward the big blue bin filled with a sea of black-cased DVDs. He picked up a copy of  _ The Green Mile  _ and tossed it away, digging through the cases beneath. 

 

“Again,” Bruce said, “Clark. I have a truly stupid amount of money. We don’t need a bargain bin. Just get whatever you want.”

 

“It’s the feel of the thing, Bruce,” Clark said. “It’s the search.” 

 

“Stop arbitrarily attaching importance to unimportant things,” Bruce grumbled, but he helped sift through the DVDs anyway. 

 

Diana reached forward, the silver of her bracelets glinting beneath the shirt. “What is this video?” 

 

Clark squinted at it. “Oh, it’s a documentary about penguins.” 

 

“I enjoy penguins,” she said, flipping the case over and studying the blurb. 

 

“Oh, fuck no,” Bruce snarled. “If you’re buying that, I’m going back to the truck and going the hell to sleep.” 

 

Clark laughed. “C’mon, Bruce, they’re just cute little penguins!” 

 

“In fact, you can leave me in the truck. I’ll sleep there all night.” Bruce flipped through a few more DVDs, huffing to himself about getting stabbed in the shoulder with the Penguin’s umbrella. 

 

“I will buy it for later enjoyment, then,” Diana said dryly. “Since you have such strong feelings on the subject.” 

 

“A torpedo in the shape of a penguin nearly took my leg off last week. I am not looking at the soulless, beady eyes of a penguin for one moment longer than I sure as hell have to,” Bruce said. “Clark. None of these movies are good. I can buy you an entire theater. Just tell me what movie you want to watch.” 

 

“You haven’t even looked at them all!” Clark said. 

 

Bruce crossed his arms. “I’m not staying here for four hours just to—” 

 

The DVDs fell back into the bin as if dropped from a slightly taller height, and a wind tousled Bruce and Diana’s hair. Clark stood with three movies in his hand. 

 

“I found Fast and Furious two and three, and the second Jurassic Park,” Clark read. He smirked. “Long four hours, huh?”

 

Bruce slowly dropped his head into his hands, and Diana shrieked with laughter. 

 

—

 

“If I removed one of these packages, would you pop the popcorn for me?” Diana asked. “With your lasers.”

 

“That’s stealing,” Clark said. 

 

Bruce emerged from the aisle with a large jar of peanut butter. “I’ll buy the entire damn company,” he muttered. 

 

“You couldn’t buy BuyCo,” Clark said. He stopped. “Wait, could you?” 

 

“Probably not,” Bruce said. “I don’t particularly  _ want  _ to own BuyCo.”

 

Diana hummed. “You could call it Wayne-Mart.” 

 

Clark snickered. Bruce sighed the sigh of someone who had five kids and had no other choice but to endure. 

 

—

 

“I’m not sure how many blankets Ma has,” Clark said, rubbing a green throw between his fingers. “She just did her spring cleaning. Big yard sale, lots of stuff went to Salvation Army. I don’t want y’all to get cold.”

 

“We can cuddle for warmth,” Diana said.

 

Clark tested another blanket, this one fluffy and stark white. “Cuddling’s better with blankets. This one’s good.” He tossed it at Bruce, who caught it and stuffed it under his arm. 

 

“If we buy anything else, we’ll need a trolley,” Bruce groused.

 

Clark stopped, delighted. “Did you just call it a  _ trolley?” _

 

“You called it a ‘y’all,’ Clark,” Bruce said, mouth quirking downwards. 

 

“You still called it a trolley,” Diana said, pulling a blanket off of the shelf. Hers was bright pink. “It was very British of you.”   
  


“Next time I see Alfred, remind me to tell him that he’s ruined you,” Clark said. 

 

—

 

By the time they left, it was three in the morning—they’d had fun chatting with the woman at the register, who was easy to talk to and told them stories about her eccentric daughter. Bruce gave her the money and then, when they got out to the parking lot, pinned a few bills in the handle of her car door. 

 

“The oldest lie in America is how we spell gray,” Bruce said. “It has an ‘e.’ Not an ‘a.’”

 

“You’re the least American American I know,” Clark informed him. “You don’t even like burgers.”

 

“They’re greasy.”

 

“You don’t even like bacon!”

 

“It’s  _ greasy.” _

 

Diana reached into the shopping cart and plucked out the box of popcorn, wrestling out a package. “Kal. Will you pop this for me?”

 

Clark lowered his glasses and focused on the bag. Heat veined through his face, and within seconds the bag was piping hot. 

 

“Thank you,” she said, squeezing his shoulder. “I greatly enjoy popcorn.”

 

“I like donuts,” Bruce said, sneaking a handful of popcorn. “That’s American.”

 

“You don’t like corndogs or hotdogs,” Clark said. “I don’t think you’ve ever even had funnel cake.”

 

“I like funnel cake,” Bruce said. “Damn you. Now I want funnel cake.”

 

Clark stopped the cart by the truck, and swung open the door to the backseat. “You don’t mind being stuffed back here with all this, do you?”   
  


“He will be fine,” Diana said. “I will hold our companions.”

 

“Noble sacrifice,” Bruce said dryly. 

 

“I am aware,” she said, stuffing the plush toys into her arms. 

 

Clark tucked bags into the backseat. “Funnel cake’s pretty greasy too, y’know.”

 

“Maybe so. It’s a beautiful lie. The sugar lures you in.”

 

“How can you like funnel cake but not bacon?” Clark asked, hands propped on his hips. “That just doesn’t make no sense.”

 

“Let me clarify this,” Bruce said. “You’re using woefully imperfect grammar in front of me, but are willing to criticize me calling it a trolley.”

 

Clark rolled his shoulders. “Yeah.”

 

“I could punch you right now.”

 

“Try,” Clark corrected. “You could  _ try.” _

Diana had hopped out of the front seat, and moved to sit on the roof of the car, cheeks fat with popcorn. “Black versus blue,” she said, in her thunderous voice, “day versus night. The Man of Steel versus the Bat of Gotham.”

 

“You should’ve said the Dark Knight,” Clark told her. “That sounds way more awesome.”

 

“It does not scan properly,” she said. She tested it: “The Man of Steel versus the Dark Knight. There is no ‘of.’ It sounds unbalanced.”

 

“Just say ‘Batman.’ Why do I need a title.”

 

“The titles make it sound more incredible,” Diana said. 

 

“Why are we fighting,” Bruce said.

 

“Well, because,” Clark trailed off. “Well.”

 

“Let us say you have been forced to,” Diana said. 

 

Bruce jerked a thumb at Clark. “I watched him get punched to the moon. I don’t think anyone can force him to do anything.”

 

“I think you could probably stop a hurricane if you glared hard enough at it,” Clark said.

 

“You are not working with my fiction,” Diana grouched. 

 

Bruce hauled himself into the backseat of the trunk, groaning as he did so. “I’m too damn tired to kick his ass tonight. Tomorrow.”

 

Clark grinned. “They do call me the Man of Tomorrow.”

 

“It will be a dawn of justice,” Diana said, once again in her loud, dramatic voice.

 

Bruce groaned, and this time it wasn’t because he was sore.


	38. bruce & dick

_ I’m glad if you are okay—but it’s okay not to be. Does that make sense? _

 

Dick was older, now, than he’d been then. Had filled into himself like a cub grows into its paws, had ended up as something slim and lean and confident. He’d had time—time, something that either spilled out of his pockets or marched the march of a lake in drought—to forget. Memories change like dice. To pull one down from the brain is to roll, and the image that’s put back is never the same as the one that was taken. Forgetting a couple words, an earnest mouth, the saltiness clumped in the back of his throat, that would’ve been simple. 

 

But he hadn’t ever forgotten. Dick thought it might’ve been because of that last part:  _ does that make sense?  _ Bruce had asked, genuinely, the question written clear in the slant of his eyes. It was maybe the first moment that Dick had started to understand the stranger who’d taken him in; weird and lonely Mr. Wayne didn’t know what he was doing, either. Mutual confusion. 

 

Dick landed on the fire escape grate with a rattle, shaking raindrops from the rusted metal. Dick wrinkled his nose. Bruce had been trying for years to get these apartments livable, again, but had been bottlenecked by crime families who paid off Gotham’s council to keep their hired muscle squatting in the slums—no dog worked better than a desperate one. And Bruce might have deep pockets, but the system fancied deeper. 

 

Dick slid open the window. He shook his head like a dog, because his hair was starting to plaster to his neck in an uncomfortable way, and ducked his head in. A pair of round, nervous white eyes found his. 

 

“Hello,” Nightwing said. He offered a jerky little wave. Something a little more human than the blank eyes of his mask, the unnatural blue. “Can I—?”   
  


The woman nodded. Dick slithered in, and peered through the shadows. The only light in the room was the dingy, orange light from the connected kitchen, but he could just make out a lump on the couch. 

 

“I know that man,” Dick said. “I’m gonna take him with me, alright? I’ll make sure he gets the care he needs.”

 

The woman nodded, still warily standing by her crooked end table. Dick spared a moment to grieve how sore his muscles would be tomorrow, and then he slid his arms under Bruce’s, hefting him like a two hundred pound-and-some-change sack of potatoes. 

 

“Thank you, for watching him.”

 

The woman nodded. Ungracefully, Dick folded himself backwards through the window, dragged Bruce out with him. He hadn’t actually thought this far. His mind had been a blur of  _ find Bruce,  _ and now that Dick had found Bruce he wasn’t entirely sure what should be done with him. 

 

Aware of the woman watching him, he hooked a grapple line around Bruce in a makeshift harness, and lowered him to the ground. The fire escape creaked angrily. Dick followed in a smooth backflip, and left the rusted metal in peace at last. 

 

“I’m never gonna be dry again,” he half-whined. The alley was filled a couple inches with cold, bitter water, which Bruce had—because everything, today, wanted to be terrible for the sake of it—landed face down in. 

 

Dick tilted him up by the shoulder, propping him against the brick wall. He jostled Bruce a bit, making sure he hadn’t swallowed any water. His disguise was fairly simple; a glued-on mustache and some cheap glasses he might’ve stolen off of Clark. Bruce must’ve not intended to stay very long—meaning, he’d already known and had only gone undercover to confirm his hunch. He tugged both off, stuffing them in Bruce’s pants pocket.

 

Bruce face twitched, and scrunched, and his eyes flicked open. They were at half-mast and as glazed as Gotham on a foggy day. 

 

“Good morning,” Dick said. “Your sting operation got a little stung. Alfred called me when you stopped responding.”

 

He raked careful hands over Bruce’s head, but there weren’t any bumps and his hands came away clean of blood, and Bruce’s expression never changed from dazed. It was a pretty little cocktail, to knock Bruce down. 

 

“Mneh,” Bruce said, and this seemed to be all he was capable of saying. 

 

Now that he was awake, Dick almost wished he’d lose consciousness again; he could see the lines tightening around Bruce’s eyes, the knots of his shoulders coiling like ball pythons. At least when drugged to sleep, he looked less stressed. 

 

“Let’s walk a bit, you think?” Dick said. He hauled Bruce to his feet. Bruce promptly tipped forward, but with a hand on his chest Dick kept him upright. “We need to get out of this weather, big guy, or we’re both going to get sick.” 

 

Bruce grunted something unintelligible. They stumbled together to Dick’s cycle, which he’d been in too much of a frenzy to swap out for the Batmobile. There was no way he was making the twenty minute drive to the Batcave in the rain right now, when it was questionable if Bruce would even stay on the bike. 

 

Dick lowered Bruce on the bike, and tapped his comm. “Oracle?”

 

_ “Hunk Wonder checks in at last.” _

 

Dick grinned. It was horribly lopsided, but he was mostly certain Babs couldn’t see it, anyway. “I was just enjoying the weather, you know me. Nature guy. In fact, I happened across a lost bat.”

 

_ “Oh? A bat?” _

 

“Yeah,” Dick said. “He’s—hell, he’s falling off the cycle. B? B, eyes on the prize. Sit up for me. That’s it. O, he’s been drugged half to death.”

 

_ “Drugged? That’s one hell of a drug.” _

 

“Mhm,” Dick hummed, squeezing Bruce’s shoulder. “He’s gonna have to sleep this one off for at least a day.”

 

_ “Send me blood tests, ASAP. This could be a new drug hitting the streets. There’s no way this is standard.” _

 

Dick shifted uncomfortably. They both knew that there was only one purpose a knockout drug like this could serve, and neither of them wanted to say it out loud. 

 

“Got it, O. I’m taking him to the penthouse.” 

 

_ “Alright. I’ll check in later.” _

 

“Bye-bye, snookums.”

 

_ “You’re gross.” _

 

Dick broke off the line with a whuff of laughter, and settled in behind Bruce on the cycle. The drive was short, and awkward, and it was easy enough to stow away in a dark corner while Dick pulled off his gloves, zipped up a high-collar jacket, peeled off his mask, and shimmied into some pants. Then they braved the parking garage—Dick’s cycle was unassuming, when Nightwing wasn’t astride it. 

 

Dick flicked the kickstand with the toe of his boot. “Put on a show for ‘em, Bruce.”

 

Bruce mumbled a string of nonsense, but he slumped over and off the cycle on his own. Dick half-supported him through the elevator ride and into the lobby. There were sneers sent his way, because no one really recognized Bruce Wayne as this half-drowned mess and Dick wasn’t around enough. But he’d learned in his brief time at Hudson University that no one asked any questions about the guy dragging his drunk friend around. 

 

When they finally got inside, Bruce immediately on the floor. “Done,” he said. 

 

“Oh no you don’t,” Dick said, snatching Bruce’s hand. “C’mon, get up, look alive.”

 

He jerked once, and Bruce stubbornly refused to move. 

 

Dick dropped the hand, scrubbed his eyes. “Okay, fine. Super. You’re like, three.”

 

Bruce’s mature response was to fold his arms over his knees and duck his head.

 

“Okay. I’m gonna shower real fast, and change into clean clothes, and then you’re… I don’t trust you with a shower, actually. This one’s tile. Just… warm clothes.”

 

Bruce, who Dick had a feeling had lapsed into unconsciousness again, didn’t respond, so Dick left him there to search the dresser for clothes. The penthouse was stocked with clothes for all of them, even Jason, which was something Bruce had done more out of wishful thinking than necessity. Dick snagged a pair of soft sweats and an equally soft t-shirt, and scrambled through a blisteringly fast shower. 

 

He swung open the door in a plume of steam, toweling off his hair. “You ready to stop being three, Bruce?” 

 

Bruce raised his head from his arms and blinked once, blearily. 

 

“This is what a human being looks like, instead of, y’know, a drowned cat.” Dick tossed his towel on the couch, moving to stand in front of Bruce with crossed arms. 

 

“Bird,” Bruce corrected.

 

Dick’s smile was soft. “Yeah, I guess. Bird.” 

 

Bruce’s head tipped forward. 

 

“No no no,” Dick said. He reached down and tugged a lock of Bruce’s hair, to which Bruce made an offended huff, but finally pulled himself off of the ground and stumbled into the bathroom. 

 

“Wait, you don’t have—” Dick trotted to the dresser, pulled out the first soft and vaguely Bruce-shaped thing he saw. 

 

He pushed open the door, shoving a bundle of clothes at the counter. Bruce watched him curiously, halfway through peeling his shirt off, as if the concept of clothes currently mystified him. Dick carefully did not look at Bruce’s bare chest, backed out, and shut the door. 

 

It wasn’t that he was a prude, or anything. It wasn’t that seeing someone who—who—it was always the scars. In this business, Dick knew he couldn't afford to be bothered by scars, and normally he wasn’t. Normally it was a distinctive marker to be filed away in case he ever needed it, a story, a battle hard won.

 

But Bruce hurt to look at. The tissue on his chest had been rearranged and stapled and stitched so many times it now fit together in weird places—it was less that he had scars, and more that he had so many scars there was only one. There were the skin grafts under his chest and arm from when Bane had thrown him into the gutter, the puckered wounds where ribs had broken skin, the sharp surgical lines it had taken to fix it. A broad burn over one whole side of him. Lichtenberg figures. More than Dick had the will to count. Bruce hurt to look at; it made Dick’s heart squeeze uncomfortably, and so most of the time he avoided it. 

 

_ I’m glad if you are okay—but it’s okay not to be. Does that make sense? _

 

Bruce emerged a moment later, looking frumpy and deeply, deeply annoyed. 

 

Dick chuckled. “Holy shit. Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed.” 

 

“Hnn,” Bruce said, flopping face-down on the couch.

 

“Oh, hold on,” Dick said. “I didn’t say I was done. Roll over, big guy.” 

 

Dick ducked back in the bathroom, pulling out a needle and a purple-capped vial. 

 

Bruce had rolled over, but he looked extremely pissed about it. Dick wished he had his phone on him, to take a picture. 

 

Dick swabbed Bruce’s arm, slid the needle home. The vial filled quickly. Dick stuck a Superman band-aid over the prick. “Now you can sleep.” 

 

Bruce reached up, fumbled around for a pillow, and smashed it over his face. 

 

“That’s one way to do it,” Dick said.

 

Dick retreated to bundle in the bed’s black comforter, and tapped his comm. “Hey, Babs,” he said. 

 

_ “I haven’t gotten my blood sample, yet.” _

 

“I’ve taken it,” Dick said. “You’ll have to come get it.”

 

_ “Really?” _

 

“Is that a whine I hear?”

 

_ “It’s a monsoon out there.” _

 

“Monsoon shmonsoon. Send someone else to come get it, if you have to.”

 

_ “I’ll make Cass go.” _

 

“Mm. Is she with you?”

 

_ “Is she with me? She’s eating me out of house and home.” _

 

“She’s a growing girl,” Dick said. He flopped backwards on the bed, a smile playing at his mouth. 

 

_ “She’s barely five feet tall.”  _

 

“But she’s five feet of whoop ass. That changes the caloric requirements.”

 

_ “That she is,”  _ Barbara said, and she sounded proud, in the way she was of all the Batgirls—and wistful, the way she was with all of them. _ “How’s Bruce?” _

 

“You know how he sometimes crashes for like, twenty whole hours? Sleeps on every available surface, and it’s complete radio silence?” 

 

_ “Yeah. I thought he had died, once.” _

 

“Well, I think he’s gonna do that for a week. I think me and Cass’ll have to cover the bust tomorrow.”

 

_ “Cass and I.” _

 

Dick sighed. “Yeah, yeah. I bow to your superior intelligence. See ya, Babs.”

 

“Call me soon, okay?”

 

“Will do.”

 

_ Love you _ , Dick wanted to add. The comm fizzled out before he could screw up the courage, and his eyes flickered closed briefly—just briefly—to imagine Babs’s soft smile and the way her hair looked when she didn’t brush it in the morning—

 

Sleep was easy. 

 

-

 

He woke up to a crash, and something between a shout and a howl. 

 

Reflexes propelled Dick out of the bed, sent him flying forward. The coffee table had been overturned, the couch sent skidding to the side. Pressed against the foot of the armchair was Cass, who was holding Bruce with his arms pinned to his sides.

 

“Shh,” she said. “Scared.”

 

Dick nodded. He edged forward, and Bruce jerked.

 

“No,” Cass said. “Slow.”

 

Bruce was breathing hard like a racehorse, his eyes unfocused and wild and white. 

 

“It’s alright,” Dick murmured. He lowered himself to the ground, leaning forward. “You’re okay. Bruce, it’s Robin. Remember Robin?”

 

Some tension spilled from Bruce. “Dying,” he choked out.

 

“No,” Dick said. “You’re fine. You’re here with me.”

 

“Didn’t tell them,” Bruce said. “Didn’t…”

 

“It’s okay. You have time. You’re fine.”

 

Cass’s hand started carding through Bruce’s hair, and the motion seemed to break him. He melted against Cass, eyes slipping shut. 

 

Dick scooted forward. “What happened?”

 

“Dream,” Cass said. “Bad. A bad one.”

 

“Thank you. For catching him,” Dick said. 

 

Cass nodded, her dark eyes looking down at Bruce. His breath hadn’t quite smoothed out into the evenness of sleep, but given time, it could. 

 

“Did you get the vial?” Dick asked.

 

Cass nodded again. She reached forward and grabbed Dick’s hand, and pressed it over Bruce’s heart. But she said nothing else.

 

Beneath his palm, Dick could feel Bruce’s heart pump hard and fluttery, like a butterfly of steel wings.  _ I’m glad if you are okay—but it’s okay not to be. Does that make sense? _

 

“I hate it when he’s hurt,” Dick said. 

 

“Yes,” she said.

 

“I used to think,” Dick said, Bruce’s heartbeat humming beneath his fingers, “that it was just love. But it’s because it’s wrong.”

 

“Wrong,” Cass agreed. “He… is good. Pain is bad.”

 

“Yeah,” Dick murmured. “Pain is bad. And I want him to be alright. But sometimes—it’s okay not to be. Does that make sense?”

 

“Yes,” Cass said. 


	39. alfred & bruce

It was the phone’s ringing that woke him—normally, a phone call in the middle of the night was not enough to startle him awake. Their phone was all the way in the kitchen, and it was easy enough to put the sound out of mind; tonight, however,  the ringing was incessant, one call after another hot on the heels of the last. Finally Alfred flicked his comforter aside and divested himself of his nightgown, dressing quickly and moving down the hall. As he walked, his shoulders shifted from a slump to a poised slope, almost as if he were putting on a second suit. 

 

He stopped at the Manor’s sleek, black princess phone, tugging his white glove down just that last little bit. “Wayne Manor,” he said, primly, into the receiver. 

 

“Hi, Al,” from the other end of the line, with a voice Alfred knew as the cities knew their streets. 

 

Alfred battled down a sigh. He should have expected something like this, truth be told—it’d been a quiet few weeks for his sixteen year old charge, which was a treasured rarity, these days. “I see you have deigned to abandon your lovely house, Master Bruce.”

 

“I, uh, little bit,” Bruce said. His voice was rough, like he’d barely gotten over a cold. Alfred swallowed worry, buried it beneath disappointment, exasperation. “I… I’m sorry, Al. I shouldn’t have.”

 

“That is correct, sir. You absolutely should not have.”   
  


“Yeah,” Bruce said, and even the static of the line couldn’t wash away how miserable he sounded. “Could you… pick me up?”

 

Alfred’s brow wrinkled. “You drove, did you not?”

 

“Uh. The Superbird got a, little, uh, stolen.”

 

“I must be growing hard of hearing in my old age, sir. Do clarify. You did say the car was stolen?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Alfred scrubbed his eyes. “Have you called the police?”

 

“I—can’t.”

 

“And what ingenius reasoning will you have for this decision, I wonder?”

 

“It’s not like I planned this!” Bruce snapped. “It’s not my—I—fine. Fine. Just… I can’t. I’m at the paper stand on Englehart. Come get me.”

 

Alfred waited.

 

Bruce sighed, a burst of crackle over the line like someone was crushing a foil bag of potato chips. “I’m sorry. For snapping. And for making you get up. And for getting the car stolen. And—I’m just sorry.”

 

“Much better,” Alfred said. “Thirty minutes, Master Bruce.”

 

“Alright.”

 

Alfred replaced the phone with a click.

 

Alfred arrived perhaps a little too quick, as the speed limit would judge it—and on a Friday night, with Gotham’s streets flooded as they were, just a few miles too fast could be a death sentence. But he sped anyway, because his heart had sunk low behind his sternum and the weight in him was unbearable. 

 

Bruce sat on the concrete lip of the street, a hole in a crowd of people. He wore Levi’s that weren’t his—far too tight at the waist, Alfred thought, and a hair too short at the ankles—and a sweater that Alfred had left in the donation bin since Bruce’s shoulders had grown as broad as his father’s. His elbows were perched on his knees and his hands were knotted like pale tree roots in his hair. 

 

Alfred pressed the horn. Bruce didn’t move. Alfred pressed it twice more in quick succession, and Bruce’s head darted up, blinking around. His eyes found the car, and he was up and running through traffic without even looking.

 

“For the Lord’s sake, Master Bruce, if you would at least look  _ both ways—”  _

 

Bruce ducked in, shaking his hair. He would need a haircut, soon. “I didn’t get hit.”

 

“Through sheer luck,” Alfred said, shifting the wheel under his gloved hands. “I do expect you’ll share the thrilling tale of how your vehicle was stolen, sir. I do enjoy a good comedy. Of errors.”

 

Bruce snorted like a bull. “Nothing to tell. I came out and it was gone.”

 

“And you failed to call the police why, sir?” 

 

“Because,” Bruce said. He glared out the window, as if he could will the Superbird back into the garage at the Manor with a look alone.

 

Alfred allowed him to stew while they shuttled through the streets. He was in no hurry to return home—the best place to corner Bruce was a car, where he had little opportunity to escape. So Alfred pulled off onto the long and lonely road that bordered the bay. 

 

“I hope you do realize I will expect more of an explanation than that, sir,” Alfred said.

 

“Then you’re gonna be disappointed,” Bruce said. “Because you’re not fucking getting one.”

 

Alfred’s fingers tightened on the wheel. Bruce seemed to realize how badly he’d overstepped, because his face crumpled and he opened his mouth, but Alfred cut him off. 

 

“If you insist on speaking to me in such a disrespectful and crass manner, then I will pull this car over and you may walk yourself home, is that clear?” 

 

“I’m sorry,” Bruce mumbled. “I shouldn’t… I’m sorry.” 

 

There was silence. The sea stretched out beside them, flat and black and stinking like poison. 

 

“What are you so terrified of, Master Bruce?” Alfred asked, softly. 

 

Bruce looked at him sharply. “What?”

 

“You’re not awful good at lying to me, sir,” Alfred said. “What happened?”

 

Bruce shuffled in his seat. “I told you. It was… stolen.”

 

“Where?”

 

“What do you mean, where? There! The… the stand.”

 

Something in the back of Alfred’s mind whispered,  _ look.  _ The tightness in Bruce’s shoulders was unfamiliar. It was fear of a different kind, not fear of what lived in the shadows, not fear of the darkness, flat and black and stinking like poison. Bruce’s shoulders were tilted away from  _ him. _ He wouldn’t look  _ Alfred _ in the eye. 

 

And all told, Alfred had been gentle, considering the damage Bruce had done tonight—in the past he had certainly been louder, been more venomous. 

 

_ Look,  _ his mind said, again.

 

“What were you doing in East End, Master Bruce?”

 

“Stuff,” Bruce said, unhelpfully. 

 

“I suppose you were just seeing the sights, then.”

 

“Something like that.”

 

“It’s curious, then, that you would find yourself on Englehart,” Alfred said, placidly. Bruce stiffened. “Because, truly, the only thing on Englehart is—”

 

“I guess that’s it, then,” Bruce said. His hand wrapped around the door handle. “I’ll—I’ll—I’ll leave.”

 

“I don’t believe I’ve asked you to,” Alfred interrupted. 

 

Bruce finally looked at him, but the look cut him to his core. “Aren’t you, though? Isn’t that what—isn’t that how this goes? Surprise, I’m—I’m _ —that _ way.”

 

“It’s a gay bar, Master Bruce, for the Lord’s sake, not a—cult meeting,” Alfred said. “Do you truly think I’m so cruel as to turn you out for being homosexual?”

 

Bruce stared at him. “I… no, it’s not… Al, I wouldn’t blame you.”

 

Alfred closed his eyes. “But you should. I know you, Master Bruce, better than to assume wrongly that your… preference affects who you are. You are the same intuitive and dedicated young man irregardless.”

 

Bruce ducked his head, and didn’t raise it for a long time. Alfred’s heart went out to him, wondering how long Bruce had felt the need to hide, hating the world outside their doors for making it necessary.

 

“Would they have been proud?” Bruce murmured.

 

Alfred chewed on his thoughts. “I think they would have been. Your mother was very forward-thinking, and your father was kind. And I think they both loved you enough to see past—see past the common belief.” 

 

_ Pedophile faggot—unnatural—ungodly,  _ they said. All the things they said. 

 

“But you don’t know,” Bruce said. 

 

“Not for certain. Never for certain.”

 

And the night rippled about them, flat and black and stinking of poison. But still they shuttled forward, together. 


	40. diana/selina

“He’s not here.”

 

Wonder Woman turned, flicking a thick curtain of black curls over her shoulder. “Catwoman,” she said, easily. “What do you mean?”

 

Selina slipped from the parapet, rolling her shoulders. “A certain someone had a dance recital. So he’s off duty tonight.”

 

“And he left you, I presume,” Wonder Woman said. In the light of the Batsignal, she seemed even taller and broader than usual, her hair curling about her in yellow-lit strands. 

 

“No,” Selina said. “He left Jim Gordon. City’s been quiet.”

 

“But you are helping,” Wonder Woman said. 

 

Selina rolled her eyes, and pushed her goggles over her cowl. “Like I said. Slow nights. I need something to do. What do you need Batman for?”

 

Wonder Woman moved around the signal, pushing against the lever. Selina’s eyes followed the ripple of her bicep as she leaned her weight against it. “I was going to have him aid me in investigating a fault in Themyscira House’s security systems. But it should be able to wait.”

 

“Well, Wonder Woman,” Selina said, a smirk tugging at one corner of her mouth, “you happen to have something of an… expert.”

 

“Call me Diana,” she said. “I would greatly appreciate your help, if you would be willing.”

 

“More than willing,” Selina purred.

 

“Aren’t I lucky,” Diana said. Her voice had lowered into a warm honey sound, a sound that flowered heat deep in Selina’s gut. 

 

Diana—with her thick arms and thighs and pulsing muscle, dark skin and thick hair and berry lips—flaring cheekbones and dark feathered eyes—

 

“I think I’m the lucky one,” Selina said. “So where’s that jet of—”

 

Diana’s fingers grasped her chin and tilted her head up, eyes blue like a summer day flicking over her face. A smile, amused, played at her mouth, and then she tilted that mouth to Selina’s in a gentle kiss. 

 

Selina was left breathless. “Wha—”

 

“A taste,” Diana said, “of your reward. Come. The jet is this way.”

 

Selina watched her go, imagining the way that ass would feel in her hands. She was rooted to the spot, as if all the muscles in her body had been pulled out. The world seemed blurred as if in a dream. 

 

Diana stopped and turned. “Are you coming?”

  
Oh  _ hell  _ yes. 


	41. bruce/harvey

“Do you do anything else?”

 

Bruce glanced up from  _ Fear of Flying, _ squinting into the bright light. Lunches during the spring were spent outside, and if it weren’t for the urchin standing above him, Bruce would’ve snuck down to the copse of thick pines and hid there, away from the rest of the school. 

 

“No,” Bruce said, flatly.

 

Harvey grinned at him. “If you keep reading so much your head’ll just keep getting fatter.”

 

Bruce scowled at him. “At least it’s not filled with hot air.”

 

Harvey laughed, and jerked his head back to the crowd of boys trampling across the field. “You wanna join? We could use a linebacker. And you could probably kick down a tree if you tried.”

 

“I’m fine,” Bruce said, looking back down at the book. Sun spots rippled across his vision. His heart felt weirdly fluttery, as if it were a butterfly caught in a storm.

 

Harvey flopped down beside him, bumping his shoulder against Bruce’s, legs sprawled out on the grass. “I guess I’ll just sit here and bully you into it, then. C’mon, Bruce! You know you want to have some fun for once.”

 

“Hm. I don’t think so.”

 

Harvey lowered his voice to mock Bruce’s: “I’m Bruce Wayne and I’m stupid rich, and I’ve never heard of—”

 

Bruce shoved him, and Harvey fell over onto the grass, cackling. “That’s what you sound like, swear it! You ever consider loosening that stick up your ass?”

 

Harvey’s smile was bright, pushing deep dimples into his cheeks. His brown eyes sparked.  _ Handsome Harvey,  _ the girls liked to call him—everyone loved Harvey. He was magnetic, full of hummingbird laughter, full of bushy-tailed earnestness that attracted people to him the way honey attracted flies. He flitted from group to group with the same laugh and the same wink and the same infuriating smile, but for some impossible reason he always came back to his surly, asocial roommate. 

 

It had morphed, slowly, from annoying into mystifying into endearing. 

 

“Not really,” Bruce answered, a beat too late to be casual.

 

Harvey absently plucked a blade of grass. “You should. I mean, you don’t want to look like Professor Dunesburry—”

 

Bruce wrinkled his nose, and Harvey laughed. “That’s the spirit! Here, you don’t have to play. Just walk with me. But if you keep reading I think you’ll go blind.”

 

“That’s not how that works,” Bruce said, but he pushed himself off the ground anyway.

 

Harvey clapped his shoulder. His brown hair had turned gold in the light, and for a moment Bruce thought the word  _ beautiful,  _ but he lassoed that thought and tied it back as one would tie back a wild burro. 

 

Harvey set off for the edge of the field. Bruce’s eyes followed the line of his shoulders, his toned arms, and dear God, the way he ran his fingers through that golden-brown hair—

 

Bruce froze. There was a word, an ugly one, for thoughts like that. Disgust slithered into his gut, a well-oiled snake working into his throat until he couldn’t swallow nor speak nor breathe. His nerves felt cold and distant and his body puppeteered by something more perverted than himself. 

 

“Bruce?” Harvey called. “C’mon, Bruce. Don’t chicken out on me.”

 

“I… should… I should study,” Bruce said, faintly. “For Civics.”

 

“That’s a hot n’fresh lie, and you know. You don’t study for anything!” Harvey said. “You just do it, because you’re a brilliant son of a bitch.” 

 

“I don’t feel well,” Bruce said. 

 

Harvey pinched his nose. “You could’ve just said so, Bruce. Okay, you wait there, I know exactly what to do. I’ll sneak you something special from the dining hall.”

 

“Harvey, you don’t—”

 

But Harvey was already jogging away, leaving Bruce alone with the venomous snake that lived in him. 


	42. bruce & mary

“You were in—you were in a car wreck,” she said.

Bruce looked at Mary’s imperious little face and said, equally as serious, “Yes.”

“And now you need t’is,” Mary said, toddling over to her pink plastic doctor’s station. Out of one of the drawers she tugged a syringe as thick as her fist, with a dull little point and heart stickers stamped on the outside.

“Oh, no. Anything but a shot,” Bruce said.

“M’sorry, Granpa,” she said, her little thumb tucked into the depress. She jabbed his shoulder with it, and he winced. The wince didn’t have to be faked—he’d knocked that shoulder out of socket again last night, resulting in a grinding metal-on-bone ache.

“All better!” she declared. She wrestled her fingers around Bruce’s sleeve and wrestled it up his arm. She was quiet for a moment, dragging a little finger along the jagged pale recess where a dagger had managed to pierce the gauntlet five or six or seven years ago. “Ouchie,” she said.

He remembered the jagged knife, flashing up and through his arm. The cold November rain, splashing against the bone. The twin wound in his chest, the knees that buckled beneath him as if his hamstring had been clipped—on his knees with his shoulder against the brick—on his knees and dimly realizing that it was just a mugger running off into the night—that he was always somehow brought to his knees by Gotham City. Too much, he’d thought, before his consciousness slid through his fingers like the rain and the blood. Too much.

“Yes,” he agreed. “Ouchie.”

“I can fix,” she said. She ran off into the bathroom that was joined to her playroom, and wriggled underneath the sink for a minute. He was contemplating how hard, exactly, it’d be to get up and help her when she tumbled back in, flicking her dark hair behind her.

“T’is will fix and you’ll be all better now,” Mary said. She wormed a sheet of toilet paper underneath his arm, and he lifted it for her, so she could wrap half the roll over the shard of white skin. He almost told her to save the paper, because she’d need a great deal more than that, but she was far too young for that.

After she had wrapped it, she nodded once, pleased, and then pressed a kiss to the makeshift bandage. “Mommy says love fix,” Mary said.

The hands on his, pulling him up. Warmth. Light. The indistinct mumble of voices, one voice tugging itself free of the bunch and leaning beside his ear and saying, Bruce-ster, we both know you’re a lot better than that. And there may have been a hole in his chest leaking the liquid matter of his heart out behind him until he was an empty husk, and there might have been a hole in his arm leaking the fluid mass of his strength out behind him until he was boneless, but he could still hear. And he could still listen.

“Yes,” Bruce agreed. “Love fix.” 


	43. bruce & dick & tim

“They picked a real bad night to try and steal an air conditioner,” Dick said. 

 

Beside him, Tim huffed. “Why are they even trying to steal an air conditioner? I mean, it’s just an air conditioner. And it’s on the second floor.”

 

“Window units are easy to steal,” Bruce said. “And in demand.”

 

Dick leaned down, bracing his elbow over his knee. Gotham summers were at least twice as miserable as her winters; where the winter was cold, beastly rain, and snow, snow, snow, the summer air smelled damp and to breathe it was to drink it. His hair had curled and stuck to the back of his neck about ten minutes into patrol—now he was feeling the tickle of hot beads of sweat rolling down his scalp. He didn’t even want to think about Bruce cooking alive underneath the kevlar.

 

“No kidding,” Tim said. “It’s eighty million degrees. Can we just, I don’t know, knock them around a little bit and be done with this?”

 

“No whining,” Bruce grunted. He flicked open a heavy pouch on the utility belt—another thing, Dick could barely think about. Bruce had the tendency to stock the utility belt nearly to bursting, and the pouches weren’t exactly small anyway. Dragging the extra twenty pounds on his waist around, in the wetness of the night, seemed to be what Dick would consider a new kind of hell. “Especially not from you. You’re wearing shortsleeves. You will survive.”

 

Dick grinned. “Ooh, someone got told.”

 

Tim scrubbed his face. “I did  _ not _ get told. Tell him, Batman, that I didn’t get told.”

 

Bruce slid something into his mouth and worked his jaw, carefully, once, twice.

 

“Oh, no,” Dick said. “He’s using the teeth.”

 

“Really?” Tim said. “Right now?”

 

“Jus’th going to th’care them,” Bruce said. Some spit flew out of his mouth, which Dick would think was gross if Bruce wasn’t wearing the ceramic bat-teeth, the ones with curling, cruel fangs that were objectively horrifying to see.

 

“Why do you get all the fun?” Tim asked.

 

Bruce launched the grapple. “Becau’the I’m Batman.”

 

With that, he was jerked away, the cape spreading out against the sky. He landed just behind the window unit, and one of the thieves stumbled on the ladder with a shout. Bruce crawled forward like some sort of half-bat half-spider, growling out a guttural roar.

 

“So, here’s my pitch, Boy Wonder,” Dick said, leaning back. “While Batman’s having entirely too much fun, what d’ya say we go to that little all-night cornerstore, and buy some ice cream.”

 

Tim grinned. “I’m listening.”

 

“And we don’t buy any double chocolate cake.”

 

“Oh, you’re evil,” Tim said. “We could always tell him we forgot his.”

 

Dick looked back to Batman, who was now hanging upside down from the underside of the ladder, hissing at the group of thieves running away in terror. One was drawing a cross in the air over his chest. 

 

“Let’s do it,” Dick said. “We’ll have to move fast.”


	44. bruce/clark/diana

“We should have a game night,” Clark said. “Y’know. I could bring everyone. You could bring everyone. Diana could—”

 

“A game night,” Bruce said, blandly. His voice was more of a rumble, where is face was pressed into Clark’s side. Clark dropped a hand to Bruce’s hair, thumbing through the coarse coal-black thicket. Bruce responded with a noise that might have been a purr. 

 

“It would be fun,” Diana said, from Bruce’s other side. She shot an amused baby blue look at Clark, and then her fingers were rooting through Bruce’ hair, bumping against Clark’s, and Bruce melted deeper into the space between them. 

 

“It would be,” Clark agreed. “I mean, can you imagine a game of charades with all of ‘em? Wild, that’d be.”

 

“I have not played charades,” Diana said. 

 

Bruce grunted. “I’d slaughter you both.”

 

Clark flicked his ear. “Arrogant ass.”

 

Bruce dug his shoulder into Clark’s side, growling a bit. Diana laughed and pulled Clark into a gentle, chaste kiss. “I think it is an excellent idea, my love,” she said. 

 

When they broke apart, Bruce had turned his head, watching them with one gray eye of great interest. “And why,” he said, “would anyone stop a scene as beautiful as that.”

 

Clark flicked him on the ear again. 


	45. bruce/harvey

When Harvey woke up in the mornings, Bruce rolled over and pulled the blanket over his head.

 

He couldn’t avoid Harvey—not when Harvey was his roommate, and not when Harvey sat beside him in every class—but he could keep his poisonous eyes down. Evil eyes, they were, and pinned to the ground was the only way he’d have them. When he forgot himself and started to stray, he’d take his forefinger and his thumb and grab the weak flesh of his stomach through his shirt, and he’d twist and twisted until the pain satisfied him. Or he’d slip a hand down his opposite sleeve and rake his nails up and down his forearm until the skin there was hot and red. Bruce had a habit of biting his fingernails, so they were conveniently long and jagged and good, for drawing blood. 

 

And he wouldn’t look at Harvey. He couldn’t stop the oily thoughts, or the foaming hatred they brought with them, but he could bite his lip until it bled. If he was alone, it was always useful to beat his skull with the thick flat of his palm—over and over, until his ears were ringing.  _ Faggot,  _ he’d think, and then he’d lean his hands on the wall and tilt his head back and whip it forward like an axe, cracking against the wood.  _ Faggot.  _ And he wouldn’t look at Harvey. 

 

But Harvey’s voice—smooth and warm and sweet and light and soft—he couldn’t escape from. 

 

“I’m back, and I brought some—oh, Jesus. The hell did you do to your eye?” 

 

Bruce shrugged from behind his folded—up knees. “Nightmare. I figure.” 

 

Harvey knew about the nightmares. Harvey had nightmares of his own, but his were quiet, soft, terror curled into a corner and scarcely breathing because the father’s shadow is sprawled across the wood panel floor. Bruce’s nightmares were loud. In Bruce’s nightmares, he was fighting, swinging fists at villains not present, desperately trying to land a hit on the son of a bitch who decided who lived and who died—

 

Harvey chuckled. “We’ll have to start tying you up before you sleep, Bruce.” 

 

_ I’d rather like that,  _ Bruce thought. Then he pulled his wooden pencil from his notebook page and, discreetly, at his side where Harvey wouldn’t see, stabbed his hand with it. 

 

“No huff? No growl? No bellyaching?” Harvey asked, flopping on his bed. “Who are you and what have you done with my roommate.”

 

Harvey tossed a bag of chips at Bruce’s lap. It missed, collided with Bruce’s shoulder, and rattled to the floor. 

 

“Shit,” Harvey said. “Missed. Are you still in your bitchy mood, or are we studying for calculus today?”

 

“Hm. I still feel pretty bitchy.”

 

Harvey laughed again. “C’mon, we can go sit outside and soak up the sunshine.”

 

“I don’t want sunshine,” Bruce said. 

 

“Please. Ever looked in a mirror? You’re basically begging for it. C’mon, let’s go.”

 

_ Begging for it.  _ And that was what he was, wasn’t it—paper thin skin stretched over weak and venomous bone, like the pale flesh of a squirming maggot. Squiggling and wriggling against Harvey’s warm pulse, eager to sink in deep and suck out that charm, that sweetness, that handsome smile. Bruce snagged the hole he’d pierced into his hand, specked with tiny globes of blood, and twisted until he was sure it would bruise. 

 

Pavlovian training. He could condition his body to expect pain for thinking the wrong thought. Self-discipline at its finest; crushing sickness with sheer determination. But training took practice. 

 

“Okay,” Bruce said. 

 

The walk was short. Harvey chatted aimlessly as they went, filling the silence Bruce never could.

 

“—y’know, I actually even got a letter from him,” he was saying.

 

Bruce started. “Your… father?”

“So you are listening. You’ve been in such a mood, I wasn’t sure you were.”

 

“Sorry.”

 

“Just make it up to me with your math brain,” Harvey said. “But, yeah, he did. He was apologizing. Saying he was sorry, for Christmas break.”

 

Bruce’s hands, tucked into the pockets of his sweater, curled into fists. Harvey didn’t know about his lies; Harvey didn’t know the black eye was from his teacher, the one teaching him how fight, how to recreate with his knuckles. Harvey didn’t know that he stole away from the school in the middle of the night. Harvey didn’t know Bruce could beat Mr. Dent bloody.

 

“You shouldn’t have to deal with him,” Bruce snarled. “It’s not right.”

 

“You’re damn right, it’s not,” Harvey said. “I’ll put him in jail. I’ll put them all behind bars, just you wait. Gotham’s never seen anything like me.”

 

_ Gotham’s never seen anything that beautiful.  _ Bruce’s foot caught, and he crashed forward, palm leaving a long bloody line on the cement. 

 

“Jesus, Bruce!” Harvey said, pulling him up by the elbow. Bruce’s skin tingled where Harvey’s hands touched. “You klutz—shit, your hand.”

 

“It’s fine.” 

 

“It’s bleeding everywhere.”

 

“I’ll live,” Bruce said. He tucked his hands back into his pockets, ducked his head back to the ground. Training.

 

“You’re crazy, Bruce, you know that?”

 

“Yes.”


	46. alfred & bruce

He found Bruce curled on the couch, buried beneath a blanket. A textbook, edges crowded by colored tabs and folded notes, was crumpled on the floor. Bruce’s face was pressed against the arm of the couch, his glasses pressed up and into his face.

 

Alfred smiled, gently, to himself—some things, indeed, never changed, chief among them Bruce’s soft snores as he fell asleep over a book. He could see, faintly, in his mind’s eye that tiny tousled head of hair, a book half his size sprawled over his lap. The little breaths, those fragile shoulders rising and falling—somehow, like smoke slipping through Alfred’s fingers, his boy’s wispy frame had given way to something steady and then something solid and then something hard. 

 

Alfred bent forward, dusting off the text with a few quick flicks of his wrist and snapping it closed. He wedged it on the table between the half-closed laptop and a stack of files—he tucked glossy photos of the Charleston murder beneath a manila folder, giving the breathing ridge of Bruce’s shoulder a scathing glance. Bruce was prone enough to nightmares, without the constant desecration slathered over it like poison. 

 

Over the years, Alfred had learned that there was a bit of a strategy, to waking Bruce up gently. 

 

“Master Bruce,” Alfred murmured. “My boy.”

 

Soft words—loud enough to wake, delicate enough to avoid Bruce’s reflexes.

 

Bruce’s snore caught in his throat. 

 

Alfred coughed, leaned slightly over, and repeated, “My boy.”

 

Bruce shifted. “Nnn.” 

 

“Good morning, sir,” Alfred said. He reached forward, sliding Bruce’s glasses off of his nose. He folded them and slipped them into his pocket. 

 

“Wha… time,” Bruce grunted, scrubbing his eyes. 

 

“Nine in the morning,” Alfred said. 

 

Bruce rolled over, pressing his face into the cushion. “M’ goin’ back t’sleep.”

 

“Of course,” Alfred said. “I would expect nothing less. Shall I ready your room, or will you be staying on the couch?”

 

“Comfy,” Bruce mumbled. 

 

“It will undoubtedly be quieter upstairs.”

 

“Hnnh.”

 

Alfred tapped his shoulder. “Up. You can take the blanket.” 

 

Bruce groaned, and rolled off the couch, pushing himself off of the ground. 

 

“I have your bifocals, sir, no need to look so direly confused.”

 

Bruce shrugged, hiking the blanket further around his shoulders. For a moment, his hair rumpled, eyes squinting and a surly frown cutting across his face, he looked like an adolescent again. Almost by instinct, Alfred’s hand ghosted over Bruce’s elbow. 

 

But Bruce leaned into it, craning his head against Alfred’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Al,” he murmured. 

 

“Whatever for.”

 

“I’m just… sorry,” Bruce said. “I don’t know.”

 

Alfred sighed, and his arms wrapped around Bruce, a gesture Bruce gratefully returned. He could feel, through the grip, Bruce’s desperation. 

 

“Idiot boy,” Alfred said. “You need less time with those blasted crime scenes. You need rest.”

 

“Yeah,” Bruce whispered into Alfred’s shoulder. “Yeah.”


	47. bruce & damian

Damian pulled out a hard plastic measuring kit from his knapsack, and stuck a small, gleaming slip of silver beneath the pumpkin. 

 

“Five kilograms,” Damian sneered. “Father, I want one of the giant pumpkins.”

 

“You are not getting a giant pumpkin,” Bruce said. “You are getting a perfectly normal, regular sized pumpkin.”

 

Damian looked up from where he was calculating volume on his notepad, scowling. “Then I want one of the tiny pumpkins.”

 

“You can’t have a tiny pumpkin because you’ll throw it at Tim.” 

 

“Drake can take it like a man or he can get out,” Damian growled, green eyes dropping back to his work. Months ago, there would’ve been some heat to his tone - now, his tense relationship with Tim had spiralled into something fueled by simple sibling jealousy, rather than the jealousy of a boy who viewed a family like a military hierarchy. Somehow, the two of them fought more now than they ever did.

 

“It would be a waste of a pumpkin, Damian,” Bruce said. He toed a pumpkin with one of his Oxfords - it was a little bit lopsided, like a giant orange water balloon had been left on the ground.

 

Damian huffed, and sat back on his heels to survey the pumpkin. “This one is inadequate.” He hopped up on top of one of the giant pumpkins, surveying the field with one hand over his eyes to block out the cold October sun. 

 

“You probably shouldn’t stand on the pumpkin, son,” Bruce said. He took a deep drink of the coffee in his hand; it was barely fall, and it was already bitter and cold. Damian was wearing two pairs of gloves under the sleeves of his winter coat, and he’d never admit to it but Bruce could hear his chattering teeth even a few feet away.

 

“The pumpkin will survive,” Damian said. “I am taking advantage of my surroundings.”

 

Bruce bumped his knee against the pumpkin’s outer wall. It was nearly Damian’s size, being up to Bruce’s hip. “Just don’t bounce on it. If you break it, I have to buy it.”

 

Damian crossed his arms, looking down at Bruce. There was a light in his sharp eyes that Bruce didn’t like. 

 

Damian rocked his heels, and, keeping his eyes locked on Bruce’s the entire time, jumped once. 

 

“Damian, get down,” Bruce ordered. 

And then Damian grinned his fiendish little grin, raised one heel, and kicked down hard in one of the recessed spots of the pumpkin’s skin. It crumpled like paper, and Damian collapsed halfway in the pumpkin. 

 

“Father,” he wheezed, trying to pull his leg out of the mess of pumpkin guts.

 

“Don’t ‘father’ me,” Bruce said, bracing his hands against Damian’s stomach and lifting. For a shining moment, he was fine with Damian’s antics as long as it meant Damian was learning how to ask for help, and then Damian slapped him in the face with a handful of pumpkin flesh.

 

“Father, I have bamboozled you!” Damian shrieked, triumphantly, wrestling his way out of Bruce’s grip, back down to his discarded measuring set and knapsack. He snatched his phone, and raised it to take a picture. “Richard owes me twenty dollars!”

 

“You get eighty for your allowance,” Bruce said, exasperated, scraping a seed off his chin. “Brat.”

 

Damian was distracted by typing out a message, probably to Dick. 

 

Bruce reached into the broken pumpkin discreetly, scooped up a handful of squishy, stringy meat, and flung it at Damian. Damian shrieked, dropping his phone, and wiped the pumpkin out of his eyes. He was grinning like a crocodile. 

 

“Father,” Damian announced, “you are a foolish man.”

 

Damian launched himself at Bruce with the form of a predator, landing like a pumpkin-covered-child-missile in Bruce’s midsection. The force of it sent Bruce stumbling back into the ruined pumpkin. The wall cracked on impact, leaving Bruce sitting in it, and Damian standing in front of him, smirking. 

 

“It’s as I said, Father. You are foolish to cross me when a bet with Richard is involved. He’ll be hearing of this shortly.”

 

Bruce tripped Damian, who crashed face-first into the dirt, and caught him by the collar, dragging him back and pressing him to the ground, ready to pull out a handful of pumpkin viscera and smear it all over -

 

They stopped as they heard a voice call out, “Mr. Wayne? Has your son picked out a pumpkin yet?”

 

They froze, and looked at each other with equal panic. 

 

Bruce cleared his throat. “Um, just a minute, thank you,” he called.

 

“You sure? Do you need me to come -”

 

“No, no, we’ll be fine, thank you,” Bruce said. 

 

They waited until they heard the door to the farmhouse shut, and then Damian was pushing at Bruce’s arm, whining, “Let me up, Father.”

 

Bruce let him go. “I suppose this is another place of business we’ve been banned from.”

 

“I haven’t been banned from anywhere!” Damian said, surly.

 

“The arcade.”

 

“One place!”

 

“The Olive Garden in Florida.”

 

“It was for our cover!” Damian said.    
  


“The plan was to get thrown out after we’d had three bowls of salad and five baskets of breadsticks. That was the  _ previously agreed upon _ number,” Bruce said. He shook a chunk of pumpkin off of his sleeve. 

 

“Father, you are unfair,” Damian sniffed. 

 

“Oh, I’m unfair, now,” Bruce said. “Fine. I’ll be a better dad. Let’s start with hugging it out.”

 

“No!” Damian squealed, dodging the hand that reached out to grab him. “You are  _ utterly disgusting!”  _

 

“It’s your fault,” Bruce said. He snuck out a foot to trip Damian, who fell for it again, and then he lifted Damian up in a bear hug. 

 

Damian squirmed. “This is foul!”   
  
“It’s your punishment,” Bruce said. “Congratulations.”

 

Eventually, Damian wormed himself free, and scooted back to a safe distance.

 

“Get your stuff,” Bruce said. “We’re leaving.”

 

“What about the pumpkin?” Damian asked. 

 

Bruce pulled out three bills and stuck them beneath a pumpkin close to the massacre. It probably wasn’t the best behavior to be modeling for a child who was already slippery as an eel when he felt like it, but he was cold, and covered in pumpkin guts, and he spilled his coffee. He wanted a heater and a couch and to watch Damian play  _ God of War. _

 

“Problem solved,” he said. 

 


	48. bruce & clark

“Life would be a lot easier if you’d stop doing this,” Clark huffed, angling his hips to light down on the ground. Some of the pink grass at his feet swirled—it wasn’t quite grass, really, or quite what a Terran worldview would allow a plant to be, and according to Bruce’s human eyes it wasn’t even pink. When Clark had started enthusiastically talking about how the not-grass had special UV properties somewhat similar to those in the bills of puffins and the wings of butterflies, Bruce had given him a flat, exhausted look that meant  _ that’s not the science I care about,  _ and Clark had wilted some. And then he thought about all the times Bruce made him want to punch something so hard it was reduced to a quantum state, and continued. 

 

Bruce made a noise somewhere between a groan and a scream, which just about cleaved Clark’s heart in two. Clark eased him down on the large, flat, spongy rock that was so distinctive to Omakhala’s largest continent, but Clark didn’t mention it, because despite the fact that Bruce was nearly unconscious he still would’ve spared the energy to give Clark that look. 

 

“Alright, big guy,” Clark said. “I’m gonna scan you real quick, okay? And then… you know.”

 

The leg wound, he knew, was pulsing blood and if he wasn’t fast about it, it’d kill Bruce soon—but he couldn’t. It was selfish, maybe, but the last time he’d pinned Bruce down and cauterized a wound that was bleeding too much the screaming had—he’d—

 

Sometimes Clark had nightmares about it. So he’d give Bruce a few seconds. Just to prepare. 

 

Bruce’s skeleton was miserable-looking and twisted, studded by steel rods and plates and screws, the largest of which was the mess that crawled up his spine like a harsh-edged spider. There were miniscule fissures along his bones, and places where the cartilage had worn away from aggressive, constant use. Beyond that, there was the internal scarring, the way his flesh had twisted around certain places where knives or bullets had slid home—no matter how many times he scanned Bruce like this, and he’d never admit to Bruce exactly how often it truly was, it always hurt. Like someone was carving him out with a butter knife. 

 

Today, in particular, there was bruising so dark Clark almost mistook it for the cape peeking through his vision extending up Bruce’s side and splashing over his chest, layered on top of other, yellowing bruises. It was older, though, just evidence of a difficult patrol. So all Clark had to worry about now was the place where an alien metal sword had split Bruce open from his hip to his knee—Clark could see, now, that it had nearly split the femoral artery longways on the inside of Bruce’s thigh. 

 

“We don’t have a lot of time,” Clark said, tightly. He snatched Bruce’s cape and folded it over itself, and held it over Bruce’s mouth. “Bite down.”   
  


Bruce groaned again, eyes flickering open beneath the cowl, but for once he did what he was told. 

 

“Stay down,” Clark said. “This… it’s gonna, uh, take some time. I’m sorry.”

Clark flicked his eyes down, and tore away a long strip of armorweave on either side of the injury. He placed one broad hand flat against Bruce’s hip, and the other flat against his knee. He was acutely aware, in that moment, of how much Bruce trusted him, because he could kill Bruce in any number of ways—he could even do it accidentally, just by getting to emotional and turned Bruce’s bones to dust underneath his hands, or lasering straight through him. There was a lump in his throat. 

 

“Okay,” he said. “Okay. On three. One, two—”

 

The numbing heat rushed forward, through his eyes, and the world was lit by red—he kept his eyes squinted against the barrage of reincarnated solar energy that wanted to explode, turning his heat vision into a fine point, and started to tilt his head along the wound. 

 

Clark had spent a lot of his life blocking out sounds, but screams had a special way of catching his attention—he was always attuned to those. It was his job. It meant that now he was listening to the muffled sound of his best friend—his  _ brother— _ howling because of what  _ Clark _ was—

 

The heat receded from his face suddenly, and Clark leaned forward, breathing hard, looking down at a half-seared blaze across Bruce’s leg.

 

“On three,” he choked out. “One. Two—”

 

He didn’t stop again, didn’t allow himself to think about the screaming or the smell of burning flesh until the beam of red met the furthest tip of blood, and smothered it over with twisted, raw burning.

 

After it was done, Clark stopped and rubbed his face with his hands, listening to Bruce’s panting slowly lose that harsh, whining edge. He forced himself to move, and he slumped in the pink not-grass, leaning half against the pockmarked rock. He pulled the spit-sticky cape out of Bruce’s mouth, and tilted his head upward enough to pull off the cowl. With a sick feeling like oil in his belly, he realized that there were tear tracks cutting through the dirt on Bruce’s face. 

 

“You’ll—you’ll need a blood transfusion,” Clark said. “And a bed. That you’re not allowed out of.”   
  


Bruce’s eyes were still closed, but he mumbled and coughed a bit, like his throat was all rusted over, and then rasped, “That… soda sh’p. In—M’tr’p’lis. Need a… fuckin’ Sh’rley T’mple.”

 

Clark chuckled. He leaned his forehead against Bruce’s, whose sweaty hair seemed to stick to his skin, and curled an arm up to lay gently on Bruce’s chest. “I’ll get you a whole damn jug.”

 

“S’nds nice,” Bruce rumbled. “No tr’nsf’s’n yet. Gonna throw up.”

 

“You’re gonna get about thirty seconds,” Clark said. “We’ve waited long enough.”

 

“Asshole,” Bruce mumbled. But his hand moved over his stomach and wrapped around Clark’s, gently squeezing, anyway.


	49. bruce & dick

Dick’s hand fumbled with the knob. “Don’t tell me you keep your room locked,” he whispered.

 

The warm weight draped over his shoulder mumbled something and Dick froze, like a deer in headlights. There was another mumble, and a shift, and a long, soft sigh. 

 

“Good kid,” Dick said, though the end of his words was smothered when he swallowed back a cough. He pulled open the door to Damian’s room one-handed; the thing about the Manor was that the doors were huge and heavy, with shiny, dusted brass knobs. Dick had stubbed his toe in one of those doors, once, and it  _ hurt. _

 

Dick gentled Damian on the bed, one hand cupping his head—he wondered if Talia had ever done this for her son, if Talia was even capable of doing this for her son. The way Damian watched him now, green eyes piercing, seemed to imply she didn’t.

 

Dick reached out and squeezed Damian’s hand. “Sleep tight.”

 

Damian’s hand pulled at his, hard enough to bruise. “Richard,” he said. “Grayson, wait—”

 

“I’ll be here when you wake up,” Dick said. “Come find me.”

 

Damian watched him, warily, and something in Dick’s face must have convinced him then, because a thread behind his eyes gave like slackening rope and his eyes drifted shut. Dick waited there, watching, until Damian’s breathing had smoothed out, flat and cool as the surface of a lake.

 

Dick pushed with his thumbs beneath his eyes, wondering whether he could press hard enough to squeeze the pressure right out of his face. When his hands dropped into his lap, his headache was still there, and there was that funny tickle just behind his jaw that promised he’d be hacking his lungs out in five minutes’ time. 

 

“Stop being weird,” Dick hissed, over his shoulder. “You can say ‘hello’ like a normal person and it’s not going to kill you.”

 

“Hello,” Bruce said, because he was an asshole. 

 

Dick turned around—funny, that even that simple motion felt like he was performing it with a chain wrapped around his ankle—and made a ‘gimme’ motion with his hands.

 

Bruce kicked off the door frame he was leaning against and handed Dick his mug. Dick cupped it with both hands and tilted it back greedily, anticipating the sharp taste of black coffee, but instead took a gulp of hot chocolate to the throat.

 

Dick swiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “What was that?”

 

“Me, being responsible,” Bruce said. His eyes were on Damian, now, and his usually unreadable expression eased at the corners of his eyes and mouth. 

 

“He’s cute.” Dick stopped to take another sip of the hot chocolate. “When he’s asleep.”

 

Bruce snorted, and backed into the hall. Dick thought for a moment that Bruce was disappearing to go do whatever it was that had caught his attention this week—Damian had mentioned over the phone that Bruce was working a lot with Clark and Martian Manhunter, apparently creating some anatomy book. But then Bruce flicked a finger at Dick that meant follow and strode off down the hall, and as much as Dick hated it when Bruce did things like that, Dick didn’t have the energy today to argue. So he followed, and shut the door quietly, and jogged to catch up. 

 

“What’re we doing,” Dick said, dropping the mug on one of the side tables they passed. He would come back for it, at some point, or maybe he’d just leave it and give Alfred an excuse to fuss at Bruce. 

 

“We are doing nothing,” Bruce said. “You are getting some rest.”

 

“Bullshit,” Dick said, before he could stop himself. “I was going to—”

 

“—and now you’re not,” Bruce said. It was infuriating, how level-headed he sounded, how stony his face was. Just once, Dick would like Bruce to get angry before he himself did, so he could see what it felt like to yell until he was blue in the face at a brick wall. 

 

“I thought we’d already covered how you don’t decide what I do,” Dick snapped, hotly.

 

Bruce’s eyebrows bunched together. “You get irritable when you’re sick. You’ve done it since you were a boy.”

 

Bruce’s voice wasn’t clear, or matter-of-fact, it was warm—quiet, even. Bruce didn’t talk much, but when he did, it was loud, shouting orders, directions, battle plans, and then there were the times that Dick secretly adored, when Bruce’s voice was barely above a normal person’s whisper and Dick knew that those words were just for his ears. Dick loved it the same way he loved Robin.

 

“It’s just a cold, Bruce, jeez,” Dick mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s not that bad.”

 

“Damian will notice if you don’t rest,” Bruce said.

 

Asshole.

 

Dick glared at him, and Bruce glared right back.

 

“He’s a sharp kid,” Bruce said. 

 

Dick sighed. “Fine, okay, I’ll go sleep.”

 

“Not before you eat,” Bruce prodded, and before Dick knew it, he was easing down into a chair and Bruce was ladling soup from the pot Alfred had tucked into the fridge. 

 

“You’re such a mother hen,” Dick whined. 

 

“Hn.”

 

“You  _ are!” _ Dick shot back. “You’re over here—” 

 

The tickle in his throat crawled up like a centipede, and then Dick was coughing, hard, into his elbow, so hard he thought his lungs would come loose and fly into his lap, and there was a cool glass of water in his hand and someone was rubbing his back. 

 

“Just a cold, hm,” Bruce said, dryly.

 

“Shut up,” Dick wheezed. But there was no bite to it, because Bruce’s hands were in his hair, thumbing at his scalp in easy circles, and if Dick leaned back into it—well. 

 

“Eat first,” Bruce said. “You need it. Then you can sleep.”

 

“M’not twelve,” Dick mumbled. 

 

Bruce stilled, and looked down at him. “You have always done that.”

 

“What?”

 

“You always say that,” Bruce said. “And you always say it exactly like that. Ever since I’ve known you.”

 

Dick flushed, and forced himself to sit up. “It’s self-defense, against you being the most  _ over-bearing—” _

 

“You’ll always be a kid to me,” Bruce said, softly. “I know you hate it. But it will never change.”

 

Dick ducked his head, so his hair hung over his eyes, and it must’ve been the sickness—it really must’ve been—because, for a moment, he thought he’d start crying. It was that same voice that was just for him, that made him think of being a kid and Robin’s brilliant red chest and  _ we did it, chum,  _ and all the days since then that he’s missed it, and the way Bruce has always cupped his head, exactly like that, when he was sick as a boy. 

 

_ Thank you,  _ was what Dick wanted to say, but he knew Bruce would snort derisively because there was nothing to thank him for. Dick wanted to say,  _ thank you for taking me to the museum when I was ten and had my dinosaur phase, because you taught me how to say micropachycephalosaurus and I still know how to say it, thank you for making sure I buttoned my coat up in the winter and thank you for helping me make my sixth grade science project, and thank you for all the times you gave me a kiss on the forehead when you thought I was asleep. Thank you for caring about me when I didn’t have anyone else left. I didn’t have anyone else in the whole wide world, except for you.  _

 

_ I never want it to change. _

 

But Bruce would never take a thank you, so Dick grinned, and said, “I suppose you’re just weird that way.”


	50. bruce & damian

“You wouldn’t,” Damian said, huffing in a breath, “bottle-feed a  _ llama, _ Richard. It makes them temperamental—”

 

Richard snorted, and then the wall of fur between them bucked backwards with a groaning noise like creaking wood and pressed itself against the far wall, ears pinned flat to its head.

 

“It’s just stairs!” Richard shouted. “It’s _ just stairs! _ You have to go downstairs, or we’ll destroy the house!”

 

The llama gave another low groan, straightened his neck out, and spat on the carpet.

 

“Father, some decorum, please,” Damian sighed. 

 

His father grunted, though the long, curling ears started to turn outwards—very incrementally. 

 

“As I was saying,” Damian continued, haughtily, “you would not bottle-feed a cria. It causes llamas to view humans as one of their own, meaning spitting, biting, and wrestling is a common among bottle-fed llamas.”

 

“So Bruce is just being an asshole to be an asshole,” Richard said, crossing his arms. 

 

Father flicked his ear, looked Richard in the eye very carefully, and then spat on the carpet again. 

 

“It’s a total no on the stairs, then,” Richard said. “Alfred’s going to have our heads.”

 

Father tossed his head, in a vague, llama-like approximation of a nod, and then tried to come forward towards them—unfortunately, a hook on the far table had gotten caught in his father’s… fur, and the table came crashing down on Father’s heels. Father made a noise like a weed whacker and scrambled down the hall.

 

There was more crashing, a high-pitched,  _ “Fuck!” _ and then a fleshy thump.

 

“Llamas are not supposed to be this easily startled,” Damian said.

 

Richard groaned. “He couldn’t even be a normal llama. He had to be a weird, asshole llama.”

 

From the hall there was another shout: “Damian! Why the fuck do we have a llama in the house?”

 

Richard muttered something beneath his breath and jogged down the hall, already saying, “Hey, Tim, take it easy.”

 

Damian followed, nose scrunched in a snarl at Drake’s implication that he would ever try and keep a true llama in conditions not fit for one, and prepared a barb to hold on his tongue for when Drake opened his insolent mouth. 

 

“I’m  _ not _ taking it easy!” Drake said. He jabbed a hand at the llama, a big, charcoal-colored shape that was looking down at the broken glass surrounding his feet with ears facing forward, like he was deeply curious as to how he’d gotten there. “That’s a fucking llama!”

 

“Bruce is the llama,” Dick said. “It’s, uh, there was some magic—”

 

Drake held up a finger to silence Richard, and then turned to the llama, who looked back at Drake with the same interested expression he’d given the shattered remains of the hall mirror. “Bruce?” Drake asked, disbelievingly. 

 

Father hummed, and grabbed a tassel of Drake’s too-long hair in his mouth and yanked it. Drake yelped, trying to wipe llama spit out of his hair with his shirt sleeve. 

 

“That’s so gross,” Drake whined. 

 

Richard patted Drake’s shoulder in sympathy. “I’m sorry. He’s an asshole right now, okay? We tried to push him down the stairs, but—”

 

As if to say  _ I couldn’t fit down the stairs and you tried to throw me down there anyway and I’m still mad at you for it,  _ Father straightened his neck, and spat in Richard’s face. Richard stood there, blankly, for a minute before wiping the spit out of his eyes.

 

Damian failed to swallow a cackle, and Father bumped his velvety nose against Damian’s forehead, in what Damian could only assume was a pleased fashion. In some ways, his father was a lot easier to read as a camelid—but in others, not so much.

 

Drake chuckled, in the half-shocked,  _ I can’t believe this is happening,  _ way and poked at Richard’s slobbery shirt. “Did… did he just—”

 

“He does that,” Richard sighed. “I haven’t retaliated because I don’t know how to punch a llama.”

 

“They like to wrestle,” Damian said, absently. “Like most camelids do, they wrestle with their necks—”

 

Richard grinned, sharply, and then Drake was diving out of the way because Richard was boxing Father’s head. Father bowled him over, but as it would turn out, it’s hard to attempt to wrestle something that doesn’t have much of a neck with your neck.

 

“The glass!” Damian said. “Richard, the glass!”

 

But apparently neither his father or Richard were very concerned about the glass, because they kept trying—and failing—at wrestling, until Father had backed Richard into a corner and, somehow, he looked incredibly smug. 

 

Drake turned to leave. 

 

“Where are  _ you _ going?” Damian snapped. “We have an emergency—”

 

“Someone has to call Zatanna,” Drake said. “And then I’m going to watch  _ The Emperor’s New Groove.” _

 

“The what?” 

 

Drake stared at him. “You… you really don’t know. Oh my God. You really don’t know?”

 

“You  _ bit me!” _ Richard shrieked, behind him. “You actually  _ bit me— _ you’re actually  _ going to die, _ old man—”

 

“Tell me about this  _ The Emperor’s New Groove,” _ Damian said quickly.

 

-

 

There was a lot more chaos to get Father into the home theater, because Father was far more jumpy as a llama than as a man—or maybe it was simply harder to hide—and he kept knocking things over. Damian had counted two picture frames, four vases (filled with water and flowers) and a candle, which set the rug on fire, which was content to burn no matter what until Father spat on it to put it out. 

 

“I guess that finally came in handy,” Richard said, in wonder. “How much do you have to spit to put out a fire?”

 

Father had responded with a grunt, and a bite on the shoulder, which they’d all kind of gotten used to—Damian had never thought of his father as nippy before, but it was certainly true now. 

 

“I guess he can just sort of lay down at the front—oh, hi, Cass,” Tim said. “Is this where you’ve been the whole time?”

 

Cain looked up from her book, an Easy Reader with large, bold print and plenty of pictures, and her eyes widened. 

 

“Bruce got turned into a llama,” Richard said, without ceremony. 

 

“L… llama,” Cain said, experimentally. Her tentative, careful voice warped the pronunciation of it. “Bruce?”

 

Father nuzzled her cheek, right next to her ear, and Cain jerked, smiling. She patted Father’s nose and he blinked at her with big, black llama eyes, and then Drake ruined it by turning on the theater and Father jumped, humming like a lawnmower. 

 

“You’d think if you were a five hundred pound llama you’d chill out a lot more,” Drake said. “C’mon, we’re watching the llama movie.”

 

Damian pointedly did not mention again how llamas were supposed to be fairly even-tempered. He didn’t think his father would appreciate it. 

 

They settled into the front row—Father laid longways in front of them, since Richard complained he couldn’t see the movie around his head. Father had given him a look, one that, on his human face, Damian was certain would feel like it had the power to see through him, but on his llama face just looked vaguely interested. Then he’d dropped his head in Damian’s lap, content to be stroked. As it would turn out, llama wool was incredibly soft. 

 

When Zatanna arrived, she laughed for ten minutes, and then Father spat on her. 


End file.
